Every body
in the window
looking at same little dog
at her breast.
The dog
at Muse’s breast.
This is the scene we each
live and breathe. Whose
muse? I talk with the dog.
There is a resigned peace.
Nobody has what they want.
Despite the suspense, the ability to predict
the knock-down drag-outs, men crashing
through the window, gunfights that soon come. And the calm.
