My neighbor walks his dog,
a decrepit Scottish terrier,
                                   in the alley,
                                   very slowly,
like he’s pushing a wheelchair.

Only in his middle years,
the man has enough dreary vitality only
                                   for this,
                                   for walking
                                   the dog.
He loves only the dog.
                                   All else is lethargy.

Behind our apartment building the dumpsters
are always overfilled with discarded furniture:
                                   A moldy couch stinks
                                   like a huge kitchen sponge;
particleboard bookshelves and cheap armoires
                                   lean on each other
like slum shanties collapsing in the rain.
                                   A television set,
                                   gone dark forever,
is placed with reverence on the pavement.

To move out of this building is to abandon
                                   your whole world
                                   and all your worldly goods
and go to the next stage
                                   naked and new

                                   or, of course, dead —
                                   discovered
many days later decomposing on the couch,
                                   the dog
                                   curled on the cushions
                                   in deep, sorrowful,
immovable sleep.