The cottonwoods have left their lint along
the neighbors’ walk, and I’m with Percy, black
as Cerberus, invisible against
the grass. There’s no one here but us. A song
is what I should be writing, but I lack
the ear. And we should both be muzzled, fenced:
Who else but one demented dog and his
befuddled dad would wake up barking mad
at 3 a.m.? Millions, probably.
I contemplate the stars, he takes a whiz.
Perhaps I have that backwards. Always bad
at getting home without a map, I see
we’re heading west, last whereabouts of day.
Percy snorts. Or laughs. I don’t have a say.
Thomas Zimmerman teaches English, directs the Writing Center, and edits two literary magazines at Washtenaw Community College, in Ann Arbor, Michigan. His chapbook In Stereo: Thirteen Sonnets and Some Fire Music appeared from The Camel Saloon Books on Blog in 2012. Tom’s website: thomaszimmerman.wordpress.com/