In a square

At Christmas, they string up lights. Although, in the city, it is never dark. Rittenhouse lights hold kidskin mittens down the wire and form Rittenhouse dogs in action.

I didn't even notice them. I was wearing your jacket fastened up to the chin. Exhausted dog breath seeped in between buttons, but I didn't notice it. I felt your scent add padding to my shoulders and massage the small and large of my back. I sensed it slide down my arms and overflow from both wrists, but I didn't even notice them.

Rittenhouse dogs nipping at my ankles. Rittenhouse dogs chasing me out their public park. They knocked me to my knees.

Enclosed in concrete heart, his finger wrote, Mister loves the letters of my name, but it was not my name, and you are not Mister or a broad-chested rooster.

Rittenhouse dogs watch the city lovers strung up in trees across rows of nocturnal lamp heads. They know that city lovers will always find the parallelogram of city park.

Rittenhouse dogs watch from the polar ends of taut leashes and have pierced ears and spiked collars. It is a shame that Rittenhouse dogs cannot talk, not that I would ever notice them.

How long have you been trying to tell me that you don't love me.