The dope man
lives in my house. He drinks my orange juice
and steals Mom’s money for Swedish Fish.
My dog licks his toes like beef-flavored biscuits
but the rest of us don’t know who he is.
I buy him Subway on my walk
to the Saturday market, ask what he’s doing today.
“Probably sleeping,” says the sad, melted enchilada
on a dirty yellow couch.
The television glares like a cop at the airport,
burning eyes into our soft brown skin. It’s hollow,
and it’s sad, too. I watch our dog curl up in a burrow,
finding winter in spring, spring in his feet,
like the seasons don’t matter ‘cause matter is arbitrary.
He spikes his back in the wind,
spurring at the slightest fleeting movement,
yet tickles his silly whiskers
when my brother’s fast-asleep.