Feeding Dogs

So there you are, feeding the
neighbour’s dogs, being autistically
true to yourself – avowing your
nature is so pure a disposition

These connections circle auras
knowing of critical need – it means
you cannot blithely ignore them
or stand by as another might

But not as an addiction; granted,
yet this scene suffuses sensitivity
like a maternal blanket, swamps
all with unconditional love

You’re not irreconcilable, it’s more
you won’t condone what decries
hunger reflected in gregarious
eyes of such sociable beasts

And knowing you’re a sweet touch
means good cannot come better
disguised than this - blinkered
compassion disposing a full gut

But were they able to give thanks
in other than joy-in-a-teacup tail-
wagging greetings of effusive
abandon could you learn from it?

Maybe, but not as a dog; knowing
where inevitability flows abandons
measured, sure-fire comfort for
machinations of incipient chaos 

A status quo anarchy perhaps, you
won’t perpetuate it except as ‘Mother
Nature’ who judges not – although
sadly their dependency grows

Their masters are alien to these
demonstrations of magnanimous
cordiality; on their part insipid care’s
not unusual hunting dog ownership

But they won’t heed how your heart
breaks thinking of inevitable agonies
awaited in an unknown future when
your provender has to cease

Feeding the dogs sustains love, is
an opus of homage to your sense of
good, and it will never be faulted –
but the gap will always widen

They welcome your care but, and
as needs must, answer to human
beasts even more feral than they
could ever have been

So the fears you can’t conceal go
to imply your deed-in-kind wealth
of largesse bequeaths a legacy for
their newly whelped pups
© 6 April 2013, I. D. Carswell