Sunday, March 08, 2009

#382: The Neighbor Dog

Last night at three a.m., the shade of sleep
was ripped in two by brightnesses of sound--
a needle-yelp, that icepick-wielding hound
who haunts the neighbor yard. However deep
in Dreamland's tide you swim, he'll pull you out
with tireless, tooth enamel-wearing noise.
It seems like hours--you'd think he'd lose his voice!
But sadly, no. And when you start to doubt
your moral firmness, picture in your claws
the mongrel's throat, a silver cleaver close
with Silence on its edge, or else a dose
of cyanide to drop in champing jaws--

His owners save him though an open door,
and you lie waking, fuming, until four.

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