His world is made of smells upon the wind,
A chained-in yard dug down to mud and stones,
The sound of heartbeats, sirens, squirrels, phones,
And human things he cannot comprehend.
Early on, he killed our cat, and grinned,
And sleeping, deep inside his chest, he groans.
He once was wild. He still is, in his bones:
He knows of prey and pack, but not of friend.
But though his air is lonely, grim and stark,
He yips and skips and frolics, joyous when
We call, and when we take him to the park,
He's happier than I have ever been:
No sorrow for the savagery he's lost,
No doubts about domestication's cost.
Copyright 2013 by Ike Wassom. All rights reserved.
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