By Martha Zweig
Poor devil, dog six years on a tether
clipped to a cubby box.
The sun dropped into a slot
on one side & after a dark spell
popped up on the other.
Birds of a weather chattered along
wires overhead & the yards around
Who knew? Once upon afternoon
a dust demon spins itself up
in the master’s tumbleweed to his match scratch: puff:
mega blaze & four hours’
ruckus until doused out. I’ll bask
three days in wonders. I’ll slobber & yawn. I’ll gnaw
& grunt in my groin to my heart’s content.
They say death changes a body’s
mind about things.
Master shuts up & just rots.