Can I Be Your Dog?

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.