Among the four: the engineer, the contractor
who built the home, a grader and her husband,
the wife listens. That the drainage be rebuilt
and be rebuilt better all are of one mind. As to cause,
she considers if the reason the four don’t concur
is that when one points a finger, three point back.
She also considers what the couple next door
made of the cracks in the foundation stones
enlarged by ice and what they made of the view
afforded by the west facing wall made up entire of glass
as the house slid off the ridge, turned on its back
and traveled to its new home.
Head on its paws in the heat of end-day,
the bitch I feed is nursing―maybe that
lean-to on the only parcel of sand not fronted by condos.
neither disinterest nor sleep; well
mannered, she does not snap but
wraps gently the sausage, the a la plancha
in my hand in her mouth and returns
to her vigil of vendors as they shutter stalls;
tourists and teens half-eaten snacks
and the salt-wind being watched by the moon.
While the cops and drunks irritate one another
she’ll eat a last meal before she returns to her pups
and the dream in which she never waits.