No one is home but this man
and his dogs, their mildly
reasonable eyes
lifting each time he moves,
two true believers
ready to follow, so benign
his mind returning
panics like a babe
waking in the Peaceable Kingdom.
Too peaceable. Hoping to divine
the inner necessities of
a few things, he puts on
his daughter’s small, real
stethoscope, and after
the after-you routine
of man and dogs in a doorway,
goes dowsing for sound.
How, at heart, does the
frigidaire feel about
being a stolid but generous
belly; what can be said
in favor of the cold?
It is tuning its inner ear
to mile on mile of wheels
clicking down tracks;
but is that a dog
barking among trees between
the panels of this door,
or only the packed grains
dreaming a forest?
How much of this is
his own mallet and tympanum?
If he pries the panel
will evergreen flounce
into the room, and by what
act of will does he hold
his house together, and against
what, that the young dog
who barks at odd noises,
and the older, whose breed is
famous for saving children,
can’t defend him?
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