The neighbor's dog paces,
rope dangling from his collar,
dragging on the dusty ground.

When his master
pulls into the driveway
he sniffs and scratches at the fence,
whining and yelping.

The car door slams, and he
anticipates being let off the leash,
jumping and spinning in circles,
tongue out and tail wagging.

The man goes in the house
and does not come out,
and the whining and yelping
intensifies into a series of
beseeching barks.

My ears reject the sound,
my mouth wants to scream
“Shut the **** up!”
And my hands want
to clamp his snout shut.

It’s like hearing
the whining echoes
of impossible desires
as they pace the earth
inside my cave,
packing the soil
hard as cement.