Two Dogs and a Cigar
Tonight I will not be Freud
scratching at the door
of the mind. I turn
beyond the perfect lawn, wild
with the wild pack, where we drink
the exhilaration of moonlight,
mad as buried treasure
and the electricity of cats.
Like a burning fuse
among the sunken ships
of dark houses, we shiver and run.
Until the ember of morning
meets the embers of our eyes,
and the sun swarms up like a priest
holding the world. We turn religious
for home, to whisper again
at that almighty door—already sad.
Tom Snyder: Collected Poems 