By Fahima Sahabdeen –
Our Stray Dogs
I worry about our stray dogs,
not because they must live off their wits
and be chased from kades with brooms
and compete with beggars and crows for food,
but because they live on the edge of sunned roads,
stretched out if you please, for afternoon siestas
or their equivalent of hot stone therapy,
inches from roaring traffic.
They sprawl at officers’ feet at army checkpoints,
the dogs under arrest as muzzles meet,
and I worry about chance gunfire,
as in Russian roulette
but nothing happens.
They seem to be laughing at fate
with their wide grinning faces,
panting against the heat.
But our first highways
have opened as part of our post-war vision,
a five-hour journey reduced to one.
Our dogs carry on with their spas and siestas
and Vicki my stylist at Cutting Station
counted seventeen dead dogs,
each flattened like cardboard,
Perhaps it’s a good thing.
Once all our stray dogs are killed,
I need not worry any more.