from a distance, I thought
you might be a wolf  
straying from the high country,
confused by the cacophony of scents,
but no,
‘twas my vapid vision, you were  
only a mongrel, perched high on the mound  
the odors of suburban fast food ghosts    
and tuna tins familiar to you  
you stood atop the reeking remnants
your right front paw resting on  
the shredded files of a grand embezzler  
your left rear on the ear of a headless teddy bear  
another on an orange rind until you shifted your weight
and found footing on a crinkled crushed water bottle
one of about…33,448,899 in the heap, or maybe
33,448,900  
and the last on the ubiquitous cell phone
that heard its final voice a fortnight before,
when its master spoke his last light words
before he tossed it into a dark dumpster  
and replaced it with another plastic confessor  
whose fate would ultimately be the same  
after some sublime texting  and sexting
and a few vain words
to other deaf dogs