old habits

the cops
are at the door.
I can see through
the peep hole their
badges,
hats pulled tight
around their brow.
I fall to the floor
and quietly crawl
back to the kitchen.
the dog
looks at me,
licks my face.
stop, I tell him.
he tugs at my sleeve.
stop, be quiet.
the popo
are at the door, I tell
him.
shh.
he looks at the door
as the loud
knock of knuckles
raps against the wood
he growls.
shhhh I whisper. it's
the fuzz.
be quiet.
he lies down
beside me,
nestles his head
against my neck.
we wait it out together.