His Gods

We obey the dog in any weather

He has four gods himself, queer quadruped:

Nose, stomach, anus and swollen bladder

We know his offerings must be scooped

Even when snow and ice and cruel wind

Make a frosted pastry of this city

For each time we have erred or slipped or sinned

We must atone with walking piety

For the dog’s temple is the thoroughfare

His determined paws pray to the pavement

Of impeding his progress, do beware

His mission is improbably urgent

For him, walking is end, and not mere means

To us, he reveals stunning, winter scenes