Canis

Split off center, at an unexpected angle,
now a log and a shim and no studs. Tim insists
it’s fine, the dog won’t know the difference.
The dog house looks like Lincoln’s cabin.
The basset hound thinks he is Lincoln.
His baritone baying aching for a tenor to
address the gathering crowds, dedicating
these burying grounds. But without having
drilled pilot holes, the nails divide the house
cleanly against itself. Tim’s dog, trapped by
the roof, pinched by a nail, howls a storm.
Tim dances around, taunting “Sic Semper Tyrannis.”