30 poems in 30 days: 9

I know I said in the last post that I should come up with a new subject. But I just can't. I'm on the shit train, apparently.  See below.

Pet Peeve

You know what I hate? I hate having to
clean up my dog's crap in the dead of
winter, taking my gloves off in the
soul-sucking cold and inhaling the hot
sharp sting of her fresh dung, feeling its
steam like a bitter cynical secret on my
freezing palm through the holey grocery
bag. 

           Also, I hate the dead of winter, which
goes on far too long around here, even
into the middle of April, which is supposed
to be a month given over to resurrection but
which remains frozen, raw,  relentless, full
of muddy snow mountains, of dog droppings
that hateful lazy winter walkers couldn't
be bothered to clean up. 

                                       I hate these mountains
that linger and stink into nearly May, their
knots of excremental indifference rising
to the surface, finally, a rank mud, a
resurrection that depresses me with its fragrant
symbolism, its ironic life message.

The next door neighbor's backyard, a small
patch of ground I look out at while washing
dishes, after weeks without cleaning melts
down to ground zero, an impressive sprouting,
a veritable shitfield. 

                                  What I really hate,
come to think of it, is my dog's rabid relish
for every kind of crap -- rabbit, squirrel, dog --

set loose on that field of rancid nuggets,
she'd hoover down every one of those black piles,
lick her chops, look up, and grin at me.

                                                                Filthy bitch --
I hate her.