Suburban Warfare

As the dog  next door

barks,

barks, barks, barks
barks, barks, barks,
barks, barks, barks,
barks, and …
I can’t help
but yell at
my window

“SHUT HELL UP!”

but soon the
bark, bark, bark
bark, bark, bark, bark
bark, bark
bark,

bark bark,
bark,
bark

turns into
it’s only little
language, a rhythmic
pulse over conversation.

The rain spattering
outside, the sound
of wind pushing against
my window, and
his

bark, bark, bark

almost gives way to
under tones of yelps
and tears saying

“let me in, please,

it’s cold and wet
and I’m hungry.”

I  go downstairs
and warm up a bowl
of gaseous canned meat and bean chili
and put it a paper bowl
and manage to give
it to him over the fence.

After he’s done eating
he’s starts barking again,
but I blare some Beethoven
and hide him in the back
of the symphony next to
bass drum where
his bark, bark, bark, bark,
keeps uncanny time.

Until he’s finally left
inside by my neighbors
who are left to wonder
how such a foul stench
can come from such a
little dog.

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