Three mad dogs of Indian country
howl at noon, all upside down like that
and sleep right past the moon. Bewitched
by liquor dreams, wrongs long gone yet
still fresh on their pickled tongues,
three mad dogs of Indian country
expect life to be short as the little war
this morning when Sherman knifed
his cousin, red blood spitting down
dust. One moment, now, is why these
three mad dogs of Indian country
look for salvation like puppies,
all that cast, no point.
.
Their mother says it that way.
All her life, men drop out
and daughters run on,
young tears, old laughter,
replenishing the supply.
orphan poems 