Coffee grounds, banana peels
white, congealed, ground-beef grease,
scraps of moldy bread crust and
the disgarded remains of Mr. Spot’s hot wings, “hot”
with limp celery and blue cheese dressing untouched
heaped in a bowl
waiting to be devoured…
Paws fully extended,
lying flat agains the cold concrete
chain pulled taut against the fuchsia nylon collar
encircling a neatly groomed neck.
Strip o’bacon tongue outstretched
straining, yet not quite
yearning for a dog’s delight.