Bred White

The community’s greyhound

shadows by on bird bones

spectral white

and a man plays pop goes the weasel on his flute

next to his shopping cart.

Skin stretches between fibula and heel bone

over a tendon hypotenuse

like a drum’s face.

Dog skin suede

sandwiches placental velvet.

Sun catches in the blood film

and shines through.

A page of red gospel.

That life is so thin

particles of light move through it

even as it shadow walks on by

wearing a collar

attached to a string to a species

that has encoded racetracks and ribcages

in its DNA.

That life is so thin that the man’s name is Lee Jones

from Michigan a Vietnam deserter.

My family is from the oven mitt, too.

White bread and white bred.

Our name, Jones, too.

The dog goes by again

picks its way through fallen fruit

on pincushion paws.

If I am keeping score -

he compensates

for all his blobby owners’

gracelessness.