Midnight at My Feet

the dog is dreaming again
yips and yips and more yips

and his paws are running
and he’s not getting anywhere

he’s on the rug
chasing something in his sleep

we are both getting to be old farts
and Winter is fine with us both

as if that White Bitch cared
cackling crone, wheezing outside

throwing snow flakes and making
the tree branches shake and moan

the five wild kittens are six months old

and are replaying last night’s demolition derby
as they begin climbing the book shelves

to resort my collection and paste a smile
on my mug as I turn to call the dog’s name

in a slow low voice and tell him that
he is safe and that I love him