Never whining after holing
themselves up in a room for hours,

tolling
to the full
ends of their leashes,

a non-dwelling 
on their sure demise,

easily understandable.
Is as in ‘just is’
just complicates is. So,
is.
Is as is.
Is
Ringing,
clanging
           over the park,
           across the gray, hobbled sky,

hoarse with amour,
trained to call, “Home. Home.”


© 2008 by Sharon Chmielarz. All rights reserved.