There’s no point to
owning a fence. My bitch
chews under it, manic
for a possum. There’s
no point to the cross
beams reinforcing the fence,
my bitch parkours
to the top, to get at
a deer, her mud tracks
spattered up the planks of wood.
There’s no point to a leash, either,
when another dog passes.
My bitch bites the neck
of the strap and wrestles me.
Sure, she lies in the sun,
a quiet bitch next to my beach chair,
or gnaws (but gentle)
on my fingers. She must dream
of the jump that crests the fence,
or the tug that makes me drop the lead.
And maybe we both imagine that—
her stretching
in a dead run across the neighborhood,
terrifying and glorious.
Why the fence? Why the fence?
