GONE TO DOGS
The century ends and a world has overcome.
Shelves of photographs in boxes simmer in the fecal basement.
The family suffocates under the protection of overgrown morning glories and siding made by vines, evolving hourly, green of unknown genesis.
The garage, so tired, decides to lie on its side, the attempted roof buckling, laughing at the faux paintjob no longer able to support its longing to sleep.
Rabbits in cages peer patiently at compost heaps and a computer box, stained black by saturation from seeping milk jugs filled with used motor oil, waiting for the toxic disposal day, Godot day.
The blind wife collects old socks and washrags lost beneath the clothesline, a task like sweeping the coast of sand.
Left-handed children, frustrated with the smears and jumbled spelling of pens beneath their fists, turn to television.
The husband watches the entertainment of employment as it recedes from reach, taking life with it, giving nothing back.
Spires of churches write edicts against thought and history, against old prison bars that turned invisible but never disappeared.
He averts his eyes from the collapse. Dazzling multi-million dollar images. Impromptu escapes to foreign deserts, rainforests, and landscapes of skyscrapers. He lopes back to cave, the shelter lacking rainspouts but has flowers.
His pot belly sloshes and his age exceeds others who molded in advance, Poe, Kerouac, artists with AIDS...
The jungle groundhog, fat and happy, thrives, building a parallel submansion beneath the floor of 1930s garage, what's left of it, cracked multi-level cement for rare basketball tosses and shows of forced energy. Form is lost; even the sonnet slinks away, looking for more money.
They pool resources and buy labels for clothes, named after gods of speed and ice: Nike, Calvin, Surge.
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