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          Humane Society
          By Bruce P. Spang

          The neighbor's pup,
          wanting in,
          won't let up.
          Yelp. Yelp. Yelp.
          This, the fourth night
          of its desperation.

          Our two cats huddle
          at the open window
          pretending to be sympathetic.
          Downstairs, the cuckoo pleads
          its shrill three-stress call.

          I can remember,
          shivering in my pajamas,
          calling out, again and again,
          Sandy Sandy Sandy
          drifting into blankness.
          Leave it alone. My wife would complain,
          Let it learn.
          It was not the dog I was calling,
          not then when my marriage
          could be counted in the three words
          we barked between us:
          it was my wanting out, there
          on the porch in the cold,
          waiting to hear how far my voice
          could carry across night fields.

          In wanting Out.




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Document last modified on: 02/10/2004

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