|"Businessmen Drink My Wine, Plowmen Dig My Earth"
Tommy is a brown and black pit bull,
brindled like hiking socks. He looks
on his side, absorbing sun. Box headed
and narrow eyed, he's reconciled
as tortoises, draping
his flamingo tongue loosely, like
a tablecloth, between his teeth. He lives
in the yard to my north and
yawning refreshes him, even though
he wakes in North Milwaukee.
There's a pit to my south too
irritable, tan Missy,
who snorts at softener steam
from the dryer vent. She folds
her articulate ears,
stretches a tawny line of nipplesvain,
but ridden by undercurrents of impotence
and suffering. She should be the boss,
but like this city under trifling leaders,
Missy is thwarted and sour
most of the time.
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