Leash

Black dog on back porch is whistling again. It’s nothing
the human ear hears, but I can tell he’s doing it
by the way his jaw drops, his panting ceases
and the tongue slaps drool from lower lip to nose.

The animal isn’t calling out
to a neighboring beast in heat,
nor is he regurgitating scraps of a melancholy tune – he’s synchronizing again
with some distant, impossible nebulae as a dog-beacon
for those who have just met their end
and can’t find the window to the Great Passing Through.

Not again, dog. I bark at it to stop. Not again.

What happened to Angels’ harps, violins, violas?
Where is the Great Bright Light or the tunnel’s gabling end?

For this, I’ve considered giving black dog away,
yet his slobber drowns carpenter ants, and his eyes
remind me of what’s loveable about flexibility.
Instead I wipe sweat from my glass and, gulping,
prayerfully beg the canine to cease. It cannot.
Why doesn’t Jupiter place vibrant-colored slides
in front of itself to guide the newly dead?

- green for go
on that way
- yellow for wait
for further instructions
- red for stop
return,

yet there is nothing but this fool dog agape,
whistling, licking at air
and anxious traffic passing out on the boulevard.

There is no conversation
one may hold with death. I want to say something
but the ice cubes have melted with me
and the telephone is inside.

Damn summer afternoon.
Asshole Jupiter. Fucking dog.

He stops then smiles before glaring at me sardonically,
promising he’ll pause if I simply let him off

the leash.

Not Again, Dog, Not Again