Dogs locked in cars while their masters shop
are all reduced, their territory circumscribed
they feel they are abandoned, left powerless
their only weapon left to them their voice.
And so in Sobey’s parking lot the choir tunes its instruments
the low deep drone of Labradors, the poodle’s piccolo,
the Shepherd’s long low moan the mongrel’s crazy bark,
playing it by ear, while men in Parkas pack their trunks
with Pellegrino water, pomegranates and grapefruits,
oranges and T-bone steaks, toilet paper, plastic wrap,
cookies and pasta, sausages and yogurt, bread and oatmeal
and those things you eat with ice-cream, wafers, I believe.
Some day I’d like to cruise the parking lot,
setting the captives free and doling doggie treats
while they got down to serious business, sniffing
each other’s calling cards, and making dates for later in the week.
But that would never do. The day of freedom-loving dogs has passed
and these dogs wouldn’t leave their cars without their leashes.
Their grocery-toting masters, free men choosing what they spend
will later find that they are tethered at the other end.
