My neighbor, Pete,
adopted a dog 
and named him Schubert,
although he claimed 
to dislike classical music,
preferring bluegrass
and trips to roadhouses 
at the edge of the Everglades
where the bartender 
could summon a taxi
when he’d had too much to drink.

You’d never mistake Schubert’s
high-pitched barking for music,
or his short bristly coat 
for the composer’s ill-combed hair.

Still, I developed a fondness
for the dog, despite his habit 
of licking my face right after he ate,
and wandering unattended on my lawn.

One morning, I found Schubert
asleep at my front door
and offered Pete a dollar 
to take him off his hands,
and to my surprise, he said yes.

Now Schubert and I
roam the neighborhood together—
I whistle the tune from Erlkönig
and he barks at the squawking 
green parrots, refugees 
from the last hurricane,
who make their homes
in the palm trees and rooftops,
not minding either of us 
claiming the ground as our own.