Pink and purple petunias mass with masses
on the boulevard waiting for buses
that pause in fleets where signs promise
they will stop. People in suits burst from nowhere,
sprint to catch one bus or the other leaving.
Patient petunias are never late. We are
waiting like people gracefully posturing
in the park, not waiting for the bus.
On a side street of abandoned shops
a crowd of people and dogs has gathered
on edges to watch an old hound circle
in the street, dying, silent. He may have been
hit, though there is no blood. He may have chosen
this place to die. He may be dying here by chance.
But I have no words to ask what happened. The dogs,
who have no more words than I, tell me more than
the people who do. There is nothing to be done.
The old hound circles, circles soundless –
no words for what happens. Some of us,
staggered by how easy it is to walk away from dying
when there is nothing to be done, will. But the crowd
will watch until the old hound dies, waiting.

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