Troubled Dogs

will we have time for our hands

to roam wherever they need?

along night air and balcony railings,

damp noses sniffing the air for intruders,

mayflies whispering against the knuckle of your 

ring finger for three quarters

of a second

we remember the freedom of being strays,

how loneliness stays as ticks and fleas.

we can’t outrun good intentions.

someone is always a phone call

away from what they call 

our salvation

if i had an insect’s body 

i would whisper with my wings 

like a dog whistle that only you can hear,

telling you we have to leave this place.

but as it is, we fill these canine back 

alley corners better than anyone else

we are dogs feeding                              

from the same bowl. you growl,

i whine. our teeth are our defense.

if we are chained, we will be loud about it. 

snapping teeth. bristled backs. we have

no other options

we want to be found. we don’t want

to be found. if chains are gone 

then we will have the memory of chains.

if hands are the reason for chains,

we will break hands

and remember them as fists

we stand in the rain

of our own frightened smell,

keys rumbling in our bellies.

troubled dogs will always belong 

to their original masters.