That blue wolf’s a quiet one.

No howls in the night. He needs 

none of the pups to follow him

down the basement. 

Untoward things lie at the bottom.

Skulls and gold bars. War medals.

Or, a simple past. A last stand 

for the old-fashioned crank

who thinks taking the album out

will yellow the pictures. His things are

adult things. Benign. Coffee and Russian 

novels that no pup would read. A square of wallpaper

in a walnut frame. A locket too stiff to open.

The pups sniff for secrets and onions

and whatever they will. 

And the blue wolf allows their ghost stories

and trespasses. They give him a laugh

as he rocks by the fire and watches 

for lines in the sticks—how many years 

until he goes downstairs and lies there too.