All the Songs Are About You and Me and Our Agoraphobic Dog

Because the wind blew east by northeast

when he was born, or because his mother

survived on armadillo carcasses and palmetto

bugs for God knows how long in the North

Florida woods, he’s afraid of the outdoors.

What this means is we’re moved by forces

beyond our control, and now we spoon-feed

our dog feverfew to calm his stomach and muffle

his ears to the sound of the 81 bus, which runs

past our apartment every eighteen minutes,

all night long. This is what love is like, the songs

tell us, and they’re right. It’s not a skyful of dark

delphiniums or the metrical pulse of bluebird wings.

It’s coaxing our sixty-pound dog out from behind

a rotting mattress trashed in an alley, or wiping

nervous slobber from his mouth so neighbors don’t

mistake him as rabid. This is what the songs tell us,

with their radio voices—Come rain or come shine—

speakers saturated with the sound of full orchestras.