the dogs are barking

the dogs are
barking.
someone's in the yard.
prowling around.
the hair is up
on their backs
as they run
from window
to window,
snarling
in the darkness.
you think about
getting up,
getting out of
bed,
grabbing the al
kaline baseball
bat out
of the closet,
but you're so
warm and cozy
lying here.
you've already said
your prayers.
you're tired. plus
the floor is cold.
you have nothing
really good
to steal,
no safe in the wall.
no art
hanging on a hook
by Renoir
or van gogh. but
if they get in,
they might steal
the pot roast you
were going
to cook in the morning.
so you slide
your feet to the side
and get up
to see what
the commotion is
all about.
if it's those Mormons
again handing
out their leaflets,
you aren't going
to be very happy.
you slap the fat part
of the bat in
the palm of your hand.