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The poplar trees are leaning in like girlfriends sharing
potent secrets, nearly scraping the roof of the squatty
house. At the drive, a broom of rain strikes a handmade
sign: "Minnie's Ark: Now accepting your unwanted animals."

The sun swoons and fails, unhooking her crinoline
and asking the cloudy horizon to pick a tune. Cicadas riot as if
conducted from a percussion section in the woods. There's
thunder and The Town of Wilkesboro's animal control officer

is out of tickets and anxious to beat the storm.
Over his shoulder he throws his voice like a snare.
I'll be back in a week to thin out cats.
Clean out those dog kennels, too.

The object of his loop is the large slightly bearded woman
tarped in a cotton dress and standing on a crumbling porch.
Kittens chase paper citations blowing across the floorboards.
"These uns are my therapy animals," Minnie pants. "I got bad nerves."

A band of unruly Dachshunds bark behind an ill-fitting screen door.
A ferret digs into her shoulder. Iguanas glaze a sill. Peacocks
fan their quills and the miniature horse, unfenced and ribby,
is listening, judging by the set of his ears.

"Please," says Minnie. "I got an adoption fair scheduled in June."
The officer known as Buck because he looks like a rivet
that's seen too many hammers is putting The Rhino in reverse.
The gray truck humped with vented lockers is now full of mixed breed dogs.

Minnie's first pup perished trying to protect her from her father.
"That dog ought not to have bit me. Now be a doll and dig
a hole while Daddy has his beer." When she was old enough
to say No, Daddy disappeared.

Mountain country has strange ways. Even before Siamese Twins,
tired of the circus, emigrated to the area in the 1800s,
things happened that no one could explain. Buck was every bit
as much the town joke now as old Minnie The Weenie Hoarder,

having lost his badge to a harassment charge, side-lined
to round up ankle biters. Well he'd soon be fishing,
he'd show everybody, maybe find a younger wife.
An inappropriate text was demanding his attention

as he backed and he never saw the snap.
Officers determined it was a microburst.
One witness swore they heard a hyena laugh.
Another said there was a muzzle flash.

Nice one.

I love the 'broom of rain', I instantly pictured it sweeping across the scene.

I've been reading this with your other post re: the narrative poem in mind. I am a fan of narrative poems and I love this one. Your rhythm, sonics and economy work beautifully. All that would be lost if this was flash fiction or whatever. Attempts at narrative poetry can get prosey. I have a hard time figuring out where the line is crossed but looking at the poetic devices in your writing leaves little doubt in my mind that this one is right where it belongs

 Your study of the animal hoarder and the dog catcher strikes just the right balance between empathy for them and on the other hand for the animals. There is no way to reconcile those three actors It's disturbing.

Hi Nicole

I like this very much. Nice shades of grey with plenty for the reader to think about. 

Just a couple of points (actually both on the same line).

ankle biters. In the UK this would mean kids not dogs. So I googled and it says the same for the US. In your region is it also used for dogs?

is this a typo, "Well he's soon be fishing,"?

Mark H

I enjoyed this immensely Nicole.
And (as Gyppo already mentioned) the 'broom of rain' is just sublime.
 

So much to like about this, Nicole.
I love the blend of craft and passion in your writing.
S.2 is my favorite in this poem, though it all flows so nicely.

T