I’m not a dog
but on some moonlit nights
I sit on the roof and yearn
for something I cannot name.
I bite my haunches
when I’m lonely, and abhor
the mailman his insistent

I am not a dog
but I know what I like.
I praise the garbage collector’s
solitary independence,
I lap up the soapy hose water
that sluices down
the curb every Saturday from
the car salesman’s house,
love to pee on the hydrangeas
(they need acidic soil,
you see) and shout gibberish
to my neighbors in greeting.

I am not a dog
but have decided
life makes no sense
without a good snout
and the ability to wail
from the back of the mouth
on those dark blue summer evenings.