I think of my poems as dogs. Are you a good boy? 
Yes, you are. Yes, you are. Rescued from 

well-meaning workshops. Puppy mill fight clubs. 
Bred for some hoped for external reward. Never 

materializing. Or worse. Abandoned when refusing 
to go where it’s told. Store bought, after haunting

lit window dioramas. Emo portrait poses. Moving 
when I move. Dollar for a collar. Two for a dish. 

Three for a tip. Here’s one: Pay to play is a finger wag. 
Out in the wild, a poem follows me home, sensing 

I’m an easy mark. Sits on my step. Sad-eyed. Needy.
Not exactly putting its paw in the door, but definitely 

making it hard to turn my back and eat dinner. My fav 
died. Of neglect and chagrin after it was run over.

A truck driven by harried well-meaning. I should 
have seen it coming. Kept it off the busy road. 

At least known how to nurse it back to health. I’m 
wiser now. Surprising are the ones which take off 

from a statement on the radio or a phrase overheard
on the train. Running down streets. Feral. Destined

to come home. Years later. Tail wagging. Fur matted.
Me in tears of joy. What does it all mean?