By Carol Ann Rudy

My neighbor bends over from the waist

to pick the fleas off her dog.

A tall husky red-head is she, the Widow Janssen,

who daily performs this act upon her quivering Mexican Hairless,

her knees locked in place,

presenting long legs mounted by a cleft roll to the world,

oblivious.

 

Watching the spectacle

from behind closed doors and dark windows,

rude jokes pass around the neighborhood,

wives laughing behind closed hands,

husbands squirming in dark minds.

 

The Widow Janssen believes she is too old,

that no one knows or cares that she daily postures

in the care of the animal.

 

She does not know

the other animals

watch.