Something about that day takes me

back into the city,

the haze seeping in as I leave

the old woman’s house,

my head full of batik colours,

deep browns and blues, and shocking

lines of pinks and magentas, violets

and purples swirling in flowers

and geometric eruptions.

And as I walk further down the street

down into that humid afternoon,

I could smell from somewhere

in that neighbourhood

a faint aroma of dogs.

And that was when I saw it—

across the street, the jail, the prison.

It was the dog pound; its sign rusting

at the edges of a cartoon puppy.

Tongue sticking out.

2009