taking his daily route, inadvertently tailing
(and downwind from) a stranger on the same course farting without inhibition,
he breathes through his mouth
but smiles nonetheless.
he goes through the pains of appearing authentic:
keys on carabiner, water proof back pack, hiking boots, cargo pants, wool shirt and wool cap,
and of course, black plastic bags hanging just visibly from a cargo pocket,
long and narrow,
and manufactured with the sole intent of containing dung.
he walks with nonchalance but purposefully until he gets there
and opens the gate,
and strolls in.
completely petless, a dog park voyeur.
seated on a bench with retrievers and spaniels and terriers swarming around his feet
like furry koi he removes his bag from his slumped shoulders,
setting it beside him as though it were a toddler, before he zips it open.
inside: four pounds of thawing ground beef mashed up with cigarette butts
collected from the ashtrays outside the diner he lives above,
painstakingly collected over the past two months.
"which one is yours?" a woman asks as she approaches.
he scans the park then locks her gaze,
"the brindle french bull dog over there."
he can't wait to feed the fish.