Skip to main content

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.