by Philip Dacey
Sometimes it’s eight or ten at once,
a pack of hounds, all wag and bounce,
and every size and breed, you name it—
long hair, short hair, elegant, cute—
the leashed pack fanned out behind as if
a ship’s spread wake, all woof and sniff.
Or call it woolly performance art,
unison-strutting complete with arf;
the rush and blur of all these paws
win jaded city folks’ applause.
Behold man and beasts one organism,
urban centaur, for modern times,
and praise this canine potpourri,
harmonious, well-groomed community,
so radiant a crowd I think they stepped out
of some Greek myth, each dog a god’s pet.