On his chain in the merciless sun
is a dog; on macadam a run-over cat —
and what’s that moving mud
near the murder of wheels? How can
these crow-crowds bear their kind? The victim
screeches in the flap but can’t outfly them:
luckless, maybe sick. . . A relative of ours.
It’s not that we lack luck or luster, family
or sleep. But here at god’s own
Earth Day barbecue we are
the blackest sheep.