One Pander at a Time

No one’s sure what caused his leg
to shift into a limp---boating
accident some say, his loot today
quite low, only three butts
by the curb
treats from passers-by
in a hurry, late for somewhere
places to go, things to do.

He’s in no rush, neither is he shy
about his unwashed state
nor unshaven face,
only hungry enough to snitch
from Pete’s groceries
whenever hunger lingers--
caught twice, needs to survive.

I watch him closing in on
my space, sharing the scent of
his defeats. Coward
that I am I flee the scene, ample
tummy leading the way.

© Richard L. Provencher
www.wsprog.com/rp/