Dog Days

 

The screen door slams

and bounces and bounces and bounces,

the loose mesh flapping flies,

suspended in the mirage vapours

of awningless sunshine

rising off the cement slab excuse

for a back porch,

flapping them in to dreamily weave the room,

filling shadowed corners with the rise and fall

of meaningless flight.

 

Eventually to land,

just out of reach of thee swatter.

It is not guessing.

They know.

And there they wait,

rubbing their hands,

waxing their wings,

screwing and unscrewing their heads,

but never quite taking them all the way off.

Until you lunge,

with a magazine

or a newspaper

or even your hand.

And then they’re gone,

to circle once

or twice

and then return,

passing just close enough

to your head

so you’ll hear

the soft snicker of wings.

 

And all the while,

the never ceasing insult

of the window unit drone

carries beyond the lawnmower line.

It carries from where that damned dog –

our damned dog –

lies beneath the air conditioner

that sticks from the neighbor’s window

like the chubby tongue of some obnoxious child

that you aren’t allowed to swat.

 

And there, folded into the two feet of shade,

is that damned dog,

lying there like he has nothing else better to do

than just to watch those tiny drops of frustration

let go one at a time,

and drop and drop and drop,

falling into a small puddle of nothing

just beyond his nose.

​