His bark, a baby’s crying

Left alone

On the flattened grass

 

My truck arriving home

To him, a hum, a pulse

The heartbeat of milk

 

He knows those gears,

Charging resistance

against my silence.

 

Backyard sprawling,

Cool, inviting nest, yet

a lonely lead-rope to him.

 

Twig fragment corn flakes,

torn leaves like high-chair oatmeal,

anxious salad of debris.

 

No space beyond his tail.

Pulled taught

Like the generous rope

 

Now his yelping hammered

higher octaves echoing

inside my guilt,

 

As I selfishly craved solitude

failing to examine

My own idea of freedom.