E. Dog in a dishwasher

The noise of the dog penetrates the house

How can we house this lithe electricity?
Like our outraged laughter,
Despising all containers, this reckless elasticity
Will not be tidied, neatly,
Like rice or pasta, greasy crayons, children's toys,
In matching floral jars, red stacking plastic.

Epitome, Platonic dog, crackling across the room;
This is his mad half-hour.
Insane, tense, smiling, bedlamite.
Well-practiced hands hoist tea
And slickly liberate complacent bacon
From his opportunists smash and grab.

A futurist kaleidoscoping space,
Creating new dimensions from the ticking
Of his claws on tiles, from screams and yells,
From slaughtered rugs, chairs, papers, cries, prone children.
Our joy defuses short commands;
Down... no... stop him. What's he been rolling in ... he smells?

Exuberant, a creature, an excess
of energy, of instinct, fluent muscle,
As well entice an eel into a jar
As this current to his wired cage.
But then before we trap him he contains himself,
Unabashed delinquent, in the dishwasher.

He slobbers over forks and plates.
Undulates in pleasure, four square, planted,
Unaware. He is the dog's bollocks.
Well that's all we can see,
Those impertinences under waving tail,
Kiss it, he seems to say,
Making a dog's breakfast of the kitchen.