-my panting cyber friend-

a small dog, somewhere in the world is dancing
in a large, cheaply paneled hall while a leisure-
suited man pokes its nose with a gentle stick.

dog’s spinning 'round and 'round
in a clumsy pirouette, dressed in pink tutu, 
looking sexy, sure— and although I can't dance,
I try to keep up.

dancing dog’s rotating on the axis of its hind legs
its surroundings more foreign to it than Neptune is to me,

pirouetting out in the wilderness, its thick, fibrous nails, (it's keratin)

clicking on stained linoleum to the delight of the few people gathered there.

this is cyberspace sometime in the 1980s.

dancing dog's looking around the room as if it’s trying to find itself,
–– wondering what being a dog means anymore.

outside, the people seem to go about their routines

somewhat familiar with their surroundings.

cyberspace is trying hard to find its footing.
inside, it's not altogether unlike Neptune.

 8/18/11