Half the year, all we smell is the sewage treatment plant,
down near the boat launch ramp.
And all we hear is the chug of bass boats idling in,
the slide of the hitch pin.
The black-coated dog swims and shakes himself dry. He is
rid of fleas, which weren’t his.
Would that we could rid ourselves of everything not ours:
reverse the birthing hour,
return the beastings to their teats; jizz to its bushed nub.
Cars circle here at night—
They flash their lights at someone in the outhouse shadow
or pass like slinking cats
afraid to taste the stranger’s milk. It’s okay, my dear.
Someone cares for you here.
Were you dying, here’s a fine place for your mangy head.
Hush. Someone’s backing in.