Our dog is the reincarnation of Thomas Jefferson, Slave Owner (3rd version, 2/15)

He sits on our back porch, above the yard five stairs.
He owns it, laps birdsong up in practiced, regal blinks;
knows he did nothing to earn his perch and sighs.

The green lawn rolls out back into the red fence
he pisses on mornings: a wet, vanishing point.

He lies down, licks his left foot longly and sleeps.
He sees white plantations, a black horse, snorts,
wiggles and kicks, dream-runs away, jerks and snarls,

                  hunts coon.

The late sun chunks blood orange warmth on the red fence.
Our dog’s eyes become two heavy, blinking dunces:

                  white crescents mold dark filth.