When I was a boy and our poodle Sugar was in heat,
all of the neighborhood dogs came around.
Dad kept the rifle loaded with rat shot.
Our days were filled with the howling of hounds.
But what were those canines supposed to do,
pulled by a force more powerful than a .22?
One year Sugar had her litter deep beneath the house.
Daddy cut a hole in the kitchen floor to get the bastards out.
He was a preacher with a buzz saw, the dogs were born again.
I held them close and wondered who their daddy was,
my hands warm and full of sin.
Are we men more than a little like these canines,
pulled by some pheromone-induced phantasm in our minds?
I think its time we pull the floor boards up,
lift our secrets out into the light
like Sugar’s newborn pups.
