shits in my scraggly excuse of a lawn

at least twice a day: right before I shuttlecock after the 10–

10:15 bus and again in the lonely glaze of night. It’s un-American,

but I don’t know shit about dog breeds—never heard of the cairn

terrier or the Dalai Lama’s billy goat—so I can’t tell my landlord

much about The Dog. I can only describe its fratty owner, married

to ignoring his mess. The trick: keep the screed short, cut

the lilac prose, and call him a Young Gentleman, so I sound polite

and not mad—a Southern gymnastics. Of The Dog, I write, White,

large, fluffy, my fingers orange with afternoon snack dust. Jesus,

forgive me. Being angry at The Dog is so unfair. But I’m sick

of that fungal smell, the sad hay color of grass that can’t grow back.

I don’t fuck with landlords, but I love mine because he responds,

Ok. Sometimes all you need is someone to tell you they’ll take care

of the shit. The split in the ceiling, burst pipes beneath the sink.

               Is there any chance you could fix me in the next ten minutes?

                             Any chance you could make it all go away?