This poem is a dog
that shits all over your house.
This poem is the shit
you find ground in your carpet.
This poem is you
abandoning the dog
on the side of the road
where you found him.
Free! This poem is the road
as you drive away,
but then your car stalls out
in traffic, and suddenly
you miss the dog—
his company on the couch.
And you feel
that old bone he’s buried
in the hollow of your chest.
And you imagine
him back home, nose pressed
to the sliding glass,
tail wagging when you let him in.
Oh, how that beast will leap
and bound across the carpet,
laying himself down
an inch from where you started.