Hate is a Dog
chained to a stake
in a yard worn bare
by his pacing,
blinded by a fence
with bird spikes
nailed on top,
who barks at the wind,
at voices, at the growl
of passing cars,
barks long after
their sounds ebb
into whispers,
who waits for the clatter
of gravel in the drive,
for the gate to open
and a man to shout,
“Christ, will you
shut the fuck up?”