Why I Don't Own a Dog

You look like a frightened puppy
hunched shoulders and shifting eyes.
Whispering as though i weren't watching you
circling, sniffing, marking your territory
all over my carefully cultivated garden.
A quivering yelp that sounds strangely like my name
is loosely buried under bulbs and earth
so painstakingly nurtured,
now turned over and reeking of your scent.
Watching me
as if i had a rolled up newspaper
behind my back,
or if with a swift kick, i'd call you "little bitch"
tell you to stop chewing my shoes, and wearing out the heel.
I'm sick of picking bits of your coat
out of my casseroles, and off my clothes.
As if leaving yourself all scattered over the couch
would be a pleasant reminder that you are here
to stay.