Two Dogs and a Cigar

Tonight I will not be Freud

scratching at the door

of the mind. I turn

beyond the perfect lawn, wild

with the wild pack, where we drink

the exhilaration of moonlight,

mad as buried treasure

and the electricity of cats.

Like a burning fuse

among the sunken ships

of dark houses, we shiver and run.

Until the ember of morning

meets the embers of our eyes,

and the sun swarms up like a priest

holding the world. We turn religious

for home, to whisper again

at that almighty door—already sad.