Caleb the Canine, yonder window-plane,
iridescent yellows, playing the glass.
Sung-spoke in soloist intimacy, to a deaf
tune, “Doggie, pretty doggie”, why they
call it–The Stroll. It’s Montgomery and it
isn’t, back of yolk-yellow signage, has it
now turned a Hunter-Green? They can
capitalize on a color, in a few words
when repeated, often enough, is simple
jingling. His hair-curls, off-white white,
my dress shirts never looked so white.
Sung-spoke out of a tube whitening
my tar-stained smile; black is how I like
it, after dinner for a treat. What’s on
the menu, it’s rough out there, Caleb,
just now skewered, for timeliest
perfection; yonder window-plane
Caleb, but be careful of that fleece.