Feeding the mutt

Flesh balls one end of a shank of bone, bobbing like a buoy on a sea not there;
Canine gnawing furiously, fleas invisibly trampolining on its back, hind leg involuntarily kicking to scratch;
Dirt bread-crumbing pink flesh,
Meat pushed beyond chains reach, whelping, jumping, but dog can’t abet;
Ginger-haired man, stubbed cigar wedged between gritted chiclet teeth, screams:
“Shut up, you f****n’ mutt,” kicking dog’s dinner opposite, out of reach, tanned bony mass giving chase;
Front paws taking off, barking at Sunday’s hambone; owner comes back out with his .22,
The words “Brady, back to pass,”
Trailing him out the screen door:
“I told you to shut the f**k up!”
Trailing upon a fading report
Like bomber afterburn over Foxboro.
Tongue laced out, as if he’s lapping water sideways:
“Look what you made me do,”
As approaching sirens filter
into the den;
“Can’t even feed the dog before her shift, that stupid b***h!”
“Why’d you bite me?”
Puncturing his hand in the kitchen with the ice pick
As the police pull up and knock.