Seven Dog Years (by Dylan James)

The wind flies in from the east with purpose,
But not one filled without intent.
It’s voice coarse, like the pitbull in my neighbor’s lawn,
Gasping for air as the spike collar sinks into its throat.

I know it has seen some things,
No different than he who owns the mutt.
To muzzle the noise, I turn
To the white collar media panitng over its ratings
The lives of the old sickened dogs.
But still, it’s muffled by the barking tyrant.

I want to establish a villain.
One who I can blame for robbing me of my time,

When time seems chained to a limitless leash.