Returning to my family house

[Peripheral]

My Bichon with gray knots
sighs. Hair mats the floor like soot,
the stools are crooked,
but the Franzia box
is parallel the fridge:

home. My apartment
was less comfortable.

I never minded fleas
until my sheets became a harem
of the slick-skinned
progenitors of "He is a quiet

one, I understand why he did not come
tonight, but at least I did invite," to whom
the crabs clap their claws

sue the withholder of deposits,
feed his dog pins

and the jaunt up Tunnel trail
showed me State street
and brake lights

I called myself happy before
I ran my nail between the knots
and flicked black beads
from the inflamed spots,

but my blood then
was festering.