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North lay the neighborhood where dogs were said
to sing for canned or kibbles. They didn’t bite.
Paws clicked like heels and no dog feared to tread
on Spanish tiles or sidewalks, but the night
fell strangely quiet. There, best friends were found
in shelters, then adopted and renamed,
a canine Charlotte Brontë, Ezra Pound.
A pet not bred for temperament was tamed.
South, past some chain-link lay a crumbling state
where muzzles roamed in packs and ribs were bars
on yellow music sheets. Yelps ricocheted
façades of white adobe spiked with shards.
An artful gate, a finely welded lock
concealed the dog who dreamed with one ear cocked.