howls at the moon

in a mesh of darkness.

When he tries to speak,

all he can do is bark,

trying to tell me why

he’s so damn lonely.

He monitors news on CNN,

figures you can’t believe

what people say,

watches men marching,

beating drums, waving flags.

He’s as peaceful as a sleeping possum,

and rescues victims of human mistakes.

He’s most at home in a junkyard

doing something useful,

guarding recycling.

Humans get lost, afraid of the darkness.

Dogs know there’s always a vein of starlight

in the black of night, and don’t even have a bark

for death.

Dogs don’t even think about anything

except infinite love. All they ever want

is to touch and be touched,

and maybe have a t-bone steak

once in a while.

Milton P.