The Silver Star Limited calls across the valley of trees
beyond the Congaree where a tethered dog yaps
in reply to the train’s whistle.
He snaps his yawning mouth and circles
under a crooked tulip tree budding at its tips,
the only tree in the weedy yard of the mill worker.
A line of rope dangles and splays at its end,
below which the ribby canine lifts his dewy snout
for breakfast’s tide from the trailer’s kitchen.
The stir and amble brings only a tinkling of water
and the dog knows his breakfast will follow
the prescribed routine birthed by the master.
Dust tickles his nose from the tail-swept ground
where he roosts in anticipation of victuals,
with no patience or sense of time’s passing.
Now the rooster crows, turning dark into light and
the pong of a fussy feline floats nearby—the garrotter,
who pleasures in stealing the hound’s breath.
He chokes and bays until burning breath silences
his loathing—the blithe cat perched on the cinder block step
where a black hand pours sweet smelling milk.
Frying pork and beef twist with eggs and wheat
while eternity passes for the binded boarder
barking and singing for his taste and share.
Tortuous time and more light, the cat finishes his sup
leaving a diminished tang in the dog’s muzzle
as he barks and circles and bawls his demands.
The door opens and food-hands descend with a bowl,
the pot of pleasure—chow, grease and biscuits!
He forgets to lick thanks; he eats and eats and eats.
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