there’s a giant dog in my neighborhood
living under the deck, 4 houses down,
on the right, behind that white picket fence
faded now, but still standing guard.
well i think that’s the house.
i only know because the lady
down the street
and though she drinks a bit,
well maybe a lot,
she sits by her window
and all night
singing a song not played
on the radio
in ages, not since the radio was
waiting, for what
she will not say.
she points out to me in her
whiskey hushed tone
the absence of life, in
the overgrown houses
paint peeling, cars melted into the asphalt.
he’s there, she assures me
a cigarette, no filter, bent from the pack,
pointing to no where specific.
we both stand in her yard, watching in vain,
the sun playing tricks
the weeds wild
and free, unhindered
like the dog.
We both shield our eyes, hers old and watering
and blue like the sky, mine brown and disappointed,
as the last moving truck pulls away,
a small dog barking from the passenger’s lap
his joy at making it out alive