When I take the
two-toned terrier
into my arms
and squeeze him tight,
does he, resigned, embrace
this cathexis I display
or detest
my foolish delight?
Why pose this question.
One might as well
anthropomorphize
a shoehorn.
All that is known is
all that is heard.
All that is heard
are lapping sounds
of the beagle licking
his dirty paws,
monotone hum of
heat pump and groan
of shifting boards,
gregarious clamor
of gathering birds,
rise and fall of
engines drone.
The two-toned terrier
trots hastily away.
His clicking nails signal
not repugnance
but only his
disinterest.
