Brown Dog sleeps in a trash heap
beside the Bière Club,
awaiting exiting patrons,
barley-hopping to Friday night’s next stop,
who might spare her a handful of chicken bones,
a scrap of leftover pork fat.
Unable to snub the small dab
of creamed spinach and mashed potatoes
she spies on the broken-slabbed sidewalk,
she consumes the gray-flavored calories
that will sustain her night’s prowl.
She watches with maternal fret
as her small companion
dares to dart, despite bum back leg,
across the beehive-alive side road,
avoiding auto-rickshaws and motorbikes
buzzing through their corner
of the pocked urban sprawl.
An agile navigator, she joins him.
They give a few quick sniffs,
then trot into fractionated night,
where they’ll blend into the blurred scurry
of Bangalore’s nine million people
and three hundred thousand other street dogs —
a population gone astray.