The dog and I walk
along a country block.
Moon on his black fur
plays a hidden spectrum:
river green ,,, maroon.
Passing homes a century old
of mortared bricks of gold.
The market will crash.
For years they've said it.
The dog feels me know it.
To the yellow road I say,
Kiss my Poor White Ass!
To the hypochrome the dog says,
Kiss my Poor White Ass!
He does his job so well.
He will never lose it.