Stray

Hank didn’t mean to nip my wrist

but he did

straining against my hand in his collar

wrenching

him back with all my weight

his burning leash

zipping through my palms

as he lurched

snarl-barking, vicious with self-defense

as the collarless

muscled neighbor dog rushed beneath

its own fence

the one Hank has puckishly pissed against

for years on daily walks

both dogs hoping it would come to this

wistfully reliving

their days in the streets as wary, wiry strays

starved sovereigns

guarding trash and shifting margins

before the rescue,

the softening, the new name morphing

daily into

a litany of canine emasculation:

Hankster, Bubby

Hanky Poo, Boo Boo, My Little Fuzzyman.