Dog Museum

When he grows up he wants to be a construction
worker, and then, says M., he’s going to build

a dog museum. It will have plenty of space for playing
fetch and digging holes and don’t forget

digging up dinosaur bones, and inside unleashed
dogs will run free and the only food will be treats.

I ask M. if other animals can visit the museum:
What about turtles?

Sadly, he says, no. You have to be a dog
or have a dog to get in.

Before I can ask if he thinks the turtles’ feelings
might get hurt or who taught him to say sadly,

he’s bulldozing the rug, excavating invisible
piles of dirt with his sawtooth bucket.

Later we read his latest library book, Don’t Hug
Doug, and right as Doug politely turns down a hug

M. lunges, loops his arms
around my neck, yells I like hugs!

His mom is my cousin, but nights I babysit
his mom is me.

On hands and knees I scoop crumbs
from beneath his booster seat, mop the pooled remains

of his tea party. I watch the monitor for hours
while he sleeps, pressing my nose to the screen,

getting as close as I can.