The Miniature Monster

The miniature yorkie downstairs
drives jagged yelps through the floor,
forcing disfiguring nerve-chill wrenches
up my sleeping spine. I fly jersey sheet

war-flags, my tossling an act of aggression.
Fortified in my disheveled bed, I stragitize:

I could stomp thunder down into its room
through these dying, paper-crust floors
like an angry god, bellowing
my case below, cursing the dog's cries.

I sheepishly decide, slugging onto my back,
this plan is reactionary at best.
There is no sense of satisfying vengeance
for the casualty of another night.
And I would have to leave my coven base-bed.

With more sonorious rounds firing
from that putrid, tiny mouth downstairs,
I explore alternate campaigns,
bellycrawling through the impossibility of sleep.