Walk with my Dog

Can we sit down, boy?
Not here, but somewhere later.
Where the wildflowers grow in the shape of the sun,
and have grown
for the 21 years past (my memory)
as a pocket shrine/island, made so by the homogenous sway
of wheat, despite the ceaseless dirge of time
outside.

Knee deep in the nature I sought,
my pocket's depth vibrates with an automated
traffic alert.
The crush of cars, from eight distinct generations
has paused the process
of the M80 downstream.

To what extent has the world slowed
in its spin, and in its orbit,
with the temporary empty
of office skyscraper gazes?

With a breath's negligence,
I too let the leash tighten around my wrist.