Dog Whisperer
I don’t do dog talk and
yet every time he breaks out
he comes to me.
Eyes downcast then
up as he mimics a dart right,
one to the left.
I don’t do dog talk but I know he’s pleading.
Let’s run, let’s chase. Let’s. Come. Come.
He visits the South African belles next door,
marks their garden, paces on their porch
and pants through their window.
And I know I don’t do dog talk,
but I am sure he’d like a little company.
I don’t do dog talk but I sure know a dog kennel,
chain-link run, is no place for play.
Where the ground’s turned to clay,
old trainers chewed, flattened, abandoned.
Played out. The fun done.
Where the plastic water bucket with red
tattered rim has no chew.
The metal food dishes dusted with garden
and leaf crumbs.
I don’t do dog talk….
yet when he patrols his metal run and
whines, snuffles and moans,
I want to whine too.
