I am here to nudge a dozen women who’ve set
anchor around a small moorage of tables

into writing about grief. And they do. And, if they
wish, they read. Tears spill; tissue is passed.

But under the table, sitting closer to my feet
than usual, Benji snuggles into my sandals,

and I, flattered, find myself sneaking peeks at him,
lowering a typing hand for a doglick, then returning

it to the laptop where I take notes on what
the writers have put on the page, what I will give

back to them as memorable, as strong, as delightful
or moving or powerful or whatever other adjective

I can come up with. Though, looking down into
those sweet brown eyes and scruffy ruff of our

most buoyant member, the only word that
floats on my tongue is adorable.