a dirty gray cat teases
at my sweet dog
while she guards my yard
from her vigil on the porch
How in the wind
does the blackish buzzard
avoid the shimmering
it was a home
but is now a house
the kings lived there
A lonely rhythm all its own has the hoot
Of the barn owl sitting near, in the edge of a pine.
She hunts solitaire, deadly to voles, moles, mice,
Any small life rambling about the field or forest floor.
She calls, and it echoes off
The barn’s tin roof and swings
Around to the cool, dark porch
Where I sit and smoke and swing.
I wonder if she knows I am
Here but a few yards away,
Drawing on a cheap cigar, watching
The smoke drift off, on its own?
As one smoke ring slides inside another,
It dawns on me she cannot care a whit,
For my existence as long as I do not interfere,
Do not interrupt her purpose for that night.
Naturally, she is concerned solely with
Groceries for her kids, and in that chore
She is concentration epitomized, Ms. Death,
Staring from eyes designed to capture every flicker.
I am so lucky for I capture her sudden fall
From her branch to disappear into the stubble
Of corn stalks and to rise and glide away,
Dinner’s silhouette, dangling from her clutch.
I do believe I’ve got
Worms in my skull,
Tight, muscular ones,
Designing to bore me to death.
Dusty Rodent Sex
How did these dust bunnies
Hop so deep beneath my bed?
Is it they that make me sneeze,
Or are they responsible for my snores?
I can imagine them at night, scurrying
Up the wall and diving from the window’s
Into my nostrils, (perfect sixes from the Russians).
Do they have sex? Are they actively
Screwing there and popping out baby-
Bunnies that are born fertile, vaginas and penises
Alert to Malthus’ math?
God, they have to be promiscuous. There
Is no other explanation for their fecundity,
Other than their ill-breeding, dark, secret sex
In front of embarrassed dust mites.
Dogs eat good
Have you ever noticed how
A dog never debates dinner,
Never snubs a pizza gift,
Always watches for the fallen crumb?
Do you see how a dog’s palette is not
Governed by gastronomy but by a gusto
For any morsel of grease from our
Chins, droplets from our lips, bits from our digits?
Dogs do not share; they are wise and usually full.