Dog peruses the oleanders,
prodding with his body among
the poisonous leaves, lifting scent
into his snout through the trembling
black doors of his nostrils. He gives
every plant this close reading, ponders
each one, and the stolid lamp posts,
the hydrants, the bottlebrush’s wizened
bark. Go, I tell him. You haven’t peed
since sunset yesterday! I lead him
to the old familiar places but they
won’t do. He looks at me, his eyes
mutter something about a muse,
and I understand. We cross the street
to the homes with lawns and again
he is reading the complex layers
of scent left by his peers on lawns,
on trunks of birches, eucalyptus.
That’s it. Enough! I say, guiding him
back toward home. Finally in dry weeds
behind a palm tree the muse speaks;
Dog balances on three legs to compose
his latest opus.
                        

The dog trembles at the window
every muscle tense under his golden coat
as he watches the cat lick
its long crutch-like leg.
 
Does his imagine what he might do
if he could finally have that cat?
Is he planning some future deed –
the pounce, the furry soft belly
clamped in his powerful jaw,
the frenzy of shaking with his terrible head – 
or is he merely caught up in the passion
of observation?
 
I think of the ice cream
that lies in wait on the freezer shelf
trembling in its carton, coldly plotting
the ambush: as you round the corner
it will punch the door open
fly out of its dark recess
hurl itself down your startled throat
assault you with its voluptuous fatness – 
 
There will be no question then 
of who is master, who is prey
no indication of a struggle;
only the spent carton holding the tired spoon
will remain, the victim having crawled off,
stupefied, to the dim bedroom where sleep
will claim its own undefended prey.