the dogcatcher: scene

1
weirding hour -
raining again.

headlights in
the desultory dusk,
questing up fog-laden streets

cold in the cracks of my teeth
shaky fingertips
hurried, arrhythmic steps

spindly trees
flailing and moaning
like flagellants
unable to reach the whip

stoplights sag, sway,
blinking
in confusion -
red, red, red

and the streetlights reflect
in the mirror-wet asphalt
like an eldritch arena

waiting for some
awful battle
to begin -


2
father's waiting at home
with a handgun
nestled in his arms
he murmurs to it
as if to reassure,
but his eyes keep flicking
to the door

his index finger runs
down the barrel,
slowly
outlines the trigger

the crescent moon of his smile
trembles over the
horizon of his lips
and sets again
as if afraid to rise

the rocking-chair creaks
in supplication
and he ignores it


3
my heart is
squirming around
inside my ribcage
like a child held
too tightly,
as i slide the key
into the lock

the door is heavier
than usual,
as if complicit in
some awful crime -
the hinges
squeal

inside,
the shadows flock
like disrupted birds
worrying at one another -
they splay themselves
over the white waste
of the walls
as if furtively,
guiltily,
hiding something -


4
the van parked
down the street
idles,
sighs -

in the back,
a horde of muzzled dogs
whine,
pawing at their snouts
eyes murderous,
sinews taut

in the front seat,
the dogcatcher taps fingers
in an ostinato
on the wheel
one two three four
five
one two three four
five

the dog-catcher (continued)

4. (son-of-a-gun)

the phone rings,
and its dull echo
hangs in the air
like a sardonic grin.

a roll of grudging thunder
shoulders through the window.
it's echoed in his head
by a streak of
dangerous thoughts

the gun he knows
he won't use,
smothered under pillows,
whining at him
like a baby from a nursery,
but tinny, & metallic.

the phone, jangling.
quiet, suggestive murmurs
from the room next-door -

he lifts it
from its cradle
& drops it again
as though burned
but without a flick of pain
on his face.

a lick of lightning's hot tongue
across the ashy cheek of the sky.

he stares into a mirror.
pulls at his eyes.
squints.
bares his neck
then his teeth.
his mouth is dry.
fear lies on his teeth
like dust,
but rabid rage squats
in his eyes.

the click of his tongue
against his palate:
hollow,
severe.

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.