From “L.A. Warming”

I train to run you down, me and that hose, against you.

We’re in the same boat, dog. We serve the man.

Get outta here before I bite your arse. Same boat my arse.

You’ll find out. They got me protecting their houses. Go figure.

Some of your kind live here too.

A few of us climb and pull up the ladder behind us, sure.

Look at what people do to each other, never mind the land.

Preach. White people, you mean.

No, whites, blacks, browns, and every other hue.

Hue, that’s an oldie. Hey, not me nor all the people locked up with me cause they look like me.

Like in kennels.

Feels like it and worse.

Kennels.

Jails.

Don’t look me in the eye and we’ll get along.

Brothers!

Don’t overdo it.

You look good in four shoes.

Stop taking the piss.

Seriously dog.

Stop calling me dog. I’ve got a name you know.

Yeah? What?

Guess.

Lassie or some A-type shit like that.

Nope.

Champion.

Nah that’s a horse.

I give up.

Horace.

No way.

Way.

Horace.

Yes. I can’t bark. I sound hoarse when I try.

You wanna guess my name.

Nope.

Fire.

Give a dog a bone.

Fire.

Cut a brother some watermelon.

Fire.

Dog whistle.

Fire.

Black booty.

Fire.

Hair of the dog.

Fire.

Wide whites of my white-teeth eyes.

Fire.

Woof. Flatten ears on my skull. Woof. Raise hairs on my back. Bare fangs. Woof.

Fire.

Holler.

Fire.

Lick. Spit. Fire.

Take me with you, no leash, barefoot, no muzzle, when you’re free, the next time you go for a hike in the hills, or a jog on the packed, wet sands along the hem of the out-going tide.

I will if you promise to behave: return to me when I call or whistle, stand still before I pitch a ball, sit with me as I watch TV and throw you scraps, from my TV meal, which you catch in that alligator trap of yours.

Assuming I need to be rescued,

orange jumpsuit, no name, black guy,

please happen my way,

I’ll run to the front of my cage,

lick your hand through mesh,

hold your eyes for as long

as I humanly can without raising

my mottled hackles.

Otherwise, I retire in the valley

on a pension with one of these uniforms,

smell barbecue as the only clue

about my past life scouring

scorched earth for humans who failed to fly,

and not once, the crime of remains.

If I get out, not when, I’ll look for you,

now that I can pick you out of a pack,

my long-eared, pointy snout, head tilt

way of looking and flared nostril,

head twist, twice sniff of my prison airs,

Horace. You own me. Now I must live

for us, you in me and me in you, I thrive.

I’ll find you in that valley where you

wait for someone like me who cares

how you spend your days and chooses

your company. Do I sound desperate?

Damn right. In this sixty-yard dash of life

how often do we men foster connections

that mean? Just so you know, I’m Nate.