WHITE NOISE

A dog in the back of a parked pick-up.

A dog on the street with its owner.

One is high up, 

the other is down low.

One roams free in the flatbed, 

the other is on a short leash.

One is big with fine fur, 

the other is small and shaggy.

Each is a different breed.

The moment they see one other

all hell breaks loose: rage erupts.

They flash their fangs.

They bark incessantly, uncontrollably.

Charge one another.

Each turns rabid.

Each could kill.

This is just what dogs do.

Why all of the frenzy and fuss

from a common species?

Is it because they are not

the same breed, height, or size?

Because shackles

and a master are involved?

There’s no way to know for sure.

Maybe Mother Nature

or animal instinct are to blame.

Or perhaps it is even more basic than this.

Maybe it’s difference itself

that’s the problem:

the very presence of an “other”

is what creates the commotion.

Humans do what dog do but better—

with far more subtlety and subterfuge

and much less noise.

Like the noise beneath these letters,

that almost goes unseen.

The noise behind all the inky blackness.

A noise as white as cotton.