Canis

You think you want the puffball pooch
for your lap, or the gentle giant that lets
toddlers pull its ears. Or the hound trained
to bring back limp birds in its mouth:
refusing instinct, whistle-whipped, gorged
on praise. But the slender beast that roams
your streets at dawn and dusk has walked
this ground a million years. When wolves
and jackals landbridged their way out,
coyote stayed. Survived the poisons, bullets
fired from planes. Misunderstood, coyote
knows your nature. Slides between cars,
its muzzle full of mice. Come now. Doesn’t
your heart wish to trot down darkened
sidewalks, outwit what has clobbered it,
yip and howl at every streetlight moon?
Here, come stand at the window. Watch
the yellow eyes, ears that swivel toward
the city’s hum. This is the dog you’ve always
wanted. The one that turns city to wildscape.
Stops you in your tracks. Unguards your door.