Shelter

Old doors slanted over packing crates
shelter the Scutzes’ several frantic dogs
pinioned on six-foot chains they haven’t been
loosed from since January of *91
when someone on skis crept up in snow fog
and undid all of their catches in the night.

Each of the Scutzes* dogs has a dish or plate
to eat from, usually overturned in the dirt.
What do they do for water? Pray for rain.
What do they do for warmth? Remember when
they lay in the litter together, a sweet
jumble of laundry, spotted and stained.

O we are smug in the face of the Scutzes, we
who stroll past their domain, its aromas of ripe decay,
its casual discards mottled with smut and pee.
What do we neighbors do? Look the other way.