by N. Andrew Spackman
It's a sodden, autumn morning and those idiot dogs are running circles again. They bound through the muck on stubby legs, down and up and down like teeter-tottering sausages. Their tongues flop to the rhythm, and their panting forms frozen puffs that dissipate under barren trees and a dim, white sky. Centuries of pedestrians idle past my view. They wear thick clothes the color of dirt. They beat a hard-packed path with their noses dragging on the ground. Every morning, I sit at the window. I eat these porridge oats. I watch those idiots run circles.