The dog trembles at the window
every muscle tense under his golden coat
as he watches the cat lick
its long, crutch-like leg.
Does he imagine what he might do
if he could finally have that cat?
Is he planning some future deed --
the pounce, the furry soft belly
clamped in his powerful jaw,
the frenzy of shaking with his terrible head --
or is he merely caught up in the passion
of observation?
I think of the ice cream
that lies in wait on the freezer shelf
trembling in its carton, coldly plotting
the ambush: as you round the corner
it will punch the door open,
fly out of its dark recess,
hurl itself down your startled throat,
assault you with its voluptuous fatness --
There will be no question then
ofwho is master, who is prey,
no indication of a struggle.
Only the spent carton holding the tired spoon
will remain, the victim having crawled off
stupefied, to the dim bedroom where sleep
will claim its own undefended prey.