Does the chained dog try to break her chain, her collar,
test which breaks first, her windpipe or the steel?
Or does the chained dog wait,
barking hunger for chow kibble,
her thirst for clean water,
her longing for the person to return?
Is the chained dog saying in the short sharp yaps,
“I’m here I’m here I’m here?”
If she knew how, the chained dog would write a novel,
proving that her poetic freedom can never be chained,
describing life on a farm with puddles to lap,
pole fences to skinny under, gophers to dig for;
beyond the farm a rabbity fragrant forest.
The story breaks her heart when the facts show through.