If you were in Boston last Sunday, this is what it felt like.
The last Sunday of the last week of August
is a hot angry dog
a pot-bellied Rottweiler b!tch
with an itch of hives under fur,
barking
first thing in the morning
at the microwaves
that rise from rolled-up headlines
on the sidewalks,
her hips sagging
with arthritis
the grey grinding and popping
of the spurs of years
after so many sweaty postman chases
so many children in streams
of hydrants
just one more bite
carrying Pavlov’s neck
in her mouth like a slipper
when she tries to jump up
and get down
to the bell
of an ice cream truck
the fading toll
as it rounds
the corner
cool inside its cab
she knows how
smiling neighborhood
clown faces could feel
against a fang!
she pants from the
burst of energy
before going back to
her own lawn
dropping in the sun
to sleep off her heat
a failing mania
yawning on the roots
of a gold-leafed elm
in the backyard.