The Dog Park

Do not think about the dog park.

Do not look at the dog park.

Do not ask why it has no dogs

but sounds of barking

drift through the chain-link fence

at precisely 4 AM

when the streetlights flicker

in morse code warnings

that no one remembers how to read.

The hooded figures tend to business

we are not supposed to understand—

perhaps they are gardening,

perhaps they are conducting

a book club discussion

of recipes that call for ingredients

that don't exist

but can be found

in aisle seven

of Ralph's grocery store

on alternating Thursdays.

Children press their faces

to the fence and see nothing

but feel everything—

the weight of being watched

by things that might be trees

or might be telephone poles

or might be the physical manifestation

of every lie you've ever told

your mother about where you've been.

The grass inside grows

in perfect spirals

that hurt to look at directly.

The sprinkler system activates

during solar eclipses

and rains upward

toward a sky that pretends

not to notice

while clouds gather

in geometric patterns

that spell out apologies

in languages we've forgotten

we used to speak.

Do not think about the dog park.

But know that it thinks about you,

files your thoughts

in alphabetical order,

waters its impossible lawn

with your dreams of owning

a golden retriever named Steve

who would fetch newspapers

from dimensions where newspapers

still exist

and tell the truth.