A Few Lines

A FEW LINES

In mostly pleasant places, these

boundary lines of mine, 

if increasingly, of late, showing more true 

to their root—to bind—than, say,

to bound, like a deer, if you catch

what I'm nosing toward here. 

You get the gist: never more

sure it’s the other hue you want 

than after this one’s on the wall,

the last exit glistening with clean

restrooms a quarter-mile

past the sign. All in all, chalk this

as another voice joining the bawl

of the neighborhood dogs 

checking out each other's digs

at the end of the drive. It's fine.

Our collars aren't even charged!

Just the lot of us faithfully tethered

to a freedom we can't escape from.