trout

The dogs of Paris

from 7 Little Parisian Poems

Elizabeth Smither

In a shop window in the rue St. Sulpice
is a dog coat. Quilted with pockets and zips
and valcroed fastenings. A small circle
admires it. Not, I think, the woman

I saw this morning discreetly kicking
with three small kicks the small turd
her miniature poodle has left towards
the flowing gutter. And someone

has trodden in a dog turd covered in leaves
and is annoyed at the deception.
What would one wear with such a dog coat?
A Balenciaga? An Ungaro?

The next time I go past it has gone
A knitted coat in rustic autumn colours
with four leg openings and tail vent stands
in its place on the plastic dog mannequin.