The Box

Pity the dog in a crate:
nothing to do but circle
round and round, again and again,
trying to get to some kind of comfort.
Living in a box is strange.

Days circle around mealtimes
and the never-enough walks
in the outside world, seeing nothing new,
but changes of scene, of sights and smells
are wonderful to contemplate.

Occasionally I sing,
but I am howling at the circle moon:
no one hears.
I huddle in a corner, grumbling quietly
in concert with the hum of TV conversation.

I rearrange my dish, my blanket,
my feet, my perspective--
prowling my limits, hemmed in,
ever restless, bored and lonely.
I could use a squeaky toy.