the dog-catcher (unfinished)

1. (prelude: ghost, son & shadow)

the ghost is always with me.
it turns its non-eyes on me
from the chair in the corner.
i have kept the lamplight low
so that no-one sees it
but me:

i see it as a brief flicker,
a vague ripple of motion
like a cloud of gas
issuing from some unseen fissure.
late at night, it hisses
like an angry cat

i am the Son
waiting for the Father
to open the door.
it has been twenty years
since he closed it on me.

the ghost is always with me.
i have never named it.
my shadow is afraid of it
& runs like a puppy behind me,
shrinking between my legs,
cowering.

the clock: just evening.
humid summer seethes outside
like an invisible jungle.
jaguars in the parking lot,
purring - then growling.
the clouds stack up
& collapse, blackening
with the effort.

rain threatens, as i step out
onto the balcony.
i can feel it on my skin.

the horizon wriggles
with the heat.


2: (Father, dog-catcher)

the van is idling.
its fangs are sheathed.

in the driver's seat,
a living shadow,
hand on the keys
at rest in the ignition.

in the back,
a stray dog barks, howls
& whines

his hand turns the key
& it all quiets down.

brief thunder -
sewing up the sky,
crawling along its ragged edge.