David Rawson

I strapped my country to a dog; it ran away.
You can see the paws & nails in the asylum oak floor.
Every floor is an asylum. Every circle is criminal.
If I strain, I can hear the radio crackle out a lie.
There are no lies in tracing your finger over rings.

A group of suits knocked on my door tomorrow.
They’ll knock on it yesterday too. Asking & receiving
is a 2 way street with a yield sign. A brick
from the schoolhouse feels real good
against a tight grip. I don’t reckon
that dog will ever come back.

David Rawson is the author of Proximity (ELJ Publications).