1yulSVC

Sirius Lament in Canis Minor
saliva, and megaphones attack
the ears with every breed of barking.
The leasing office tells me:
The puppy’s owner just put her
in a crate. You’re not the only one
who’s complained.
This fact is no solution and I see red.
Red is the dog’s leather noose,
its own hanging tongue, panting
for the person who makes jewels
of four legs and a heart
stashed in a cramped cage. Eyes
bloodshot, mind strung out on day-glow,
a bit shaky, I’m vexed by my inmate,
that barkbox tucked inside another box.
Most mornings I drive and fall
asleep at the wheel and dream
revolutionary red, a time when dogs
wear navy blue uniforms buttoned to the neck.
Centered on their cotton caps,
a dog silhouette inside a red star.
Crowds of them paw little red
sickle-shaped books, and they aim
their gazes and guns toward a crescentshaped
statue of Sleep, while others
rock it to and fro until they topple
the damned thing, knocking it
to ground-level, so they can smash it
some more with sledgehammers,
then give the head a good kick,
until the moon and stars, far away,
voiceless and weaponless, roll over,
switch on their lights, pull out dream
journals and start to scribble.
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