September
and Shelby’s gnawed
through the fence wire.

All day we staple her face
to wooden pillars
beside concert flyers
and strip club propaganda.

She’s either dead
or being rained on.

At dawn,
I scour neighborhoods
for dried blood, riding my
bike barefoot
across white suburbia.

Most dogs
love suburban living.

Every house
is made of bones,
but you find her roaming
along a highway.