Outside his yard my two dogs screech to a halt;
And out from the shrubs by the too-short fence, here they come:
His two dogs, leashless, thundering out, full tilt.
I dread this, every day. I hold on, grim,
As my two roar and pull, his roar and lunge -
But don’t close actually in. One’s black, getting old:
He’s easy, alone; the other one’s young
And new, burnt-brown, with that sawn-flat head
That means just one thing.
“Yes, ma’am -” Mr. Red Neck’s now here:
“He’s a pit-bull cross.” Like you, I reply,
Mutely. He smiles, though, and needn’t. The four dogs glower
In a tooth-bared truce. “Leash laws,’ I say,
Bravely. He blames the fence. He’s still smiling. “Uh,”
I concede. “What’s his name?” The morning suddenly thaws.
“Browning.” The dog looks up with a competent air;
Red kicks him, fondly. “After the rifle,” he says.