by Yvonne Osborne
The house is shuttered and the yard untended.
A mangy dog on a chain silently leaps at passersby,
panting as he runs the chain out.
He hears me coming and the race begins.
Back and forth he lunges with muscled shoulders.
The ground is beaten to hardpack by the pads of his feet.
He never barks.
He wears me out with his silent effort.
What does he want?
An MIA banner is draped across the back of the porch
under a bare bulb that is always lit.
Past time when one would be moved by such devotion
like the homemade sign in a yard across town—
My friend, John Smith, was killed by Agent Orange.
Slightly lower, beneath the banner for the missing,
A dusty American flag droops from the clapboard.
I want to plant yellow petunias up and down the walk,
I want to go inside and open the curtains and turn off the light.
I want the dog to bark.
Yvonne Osborne has a flock of chickens and an organic gardening business, but every spare minute is spent HERE.
The house is shuttered and the yard untended.
A mangy dog on a chain silently leaps at passersby,
panting as he runs the chain out.
He hears me coming and the race begins.
Back and forth he lunges with muscled shoulders.
The ground is beaten to hardpack by the pads of his feet.
He never barks.
He wears me out with his silent effort.
What does he want?
An MIA banner is draped across the back of the porch
under a bare bulb that is always lit.
Past time when one would be moved by such devotion
like the homemade sign in a yard across town—
My friend, John Smith, was killed by Agent Orange.
Slightly lower, beneath the banner for the missing,
A dusty American flag droops from the clapboard.
I want to plant yellow petunias up and down the walk,
I want to go inside and open the curtains and turn off the light.
I want the dog to bark.
Yvonne Osborne has a flock of chickens and an organic gardening business, but every spare minute is spent HERE.
