Ode to a Yangon Street Dog
You slouch regally atop your packing crate, a tarnished throne
Limping cock-eyed and lock-limbed across the puckered tarmac
Licking leftovers along the lans and alleys.
To not discriminate what you eat, is no mean feat in this city where meat sours by the hour on the street in the heat - but it's okay - you only get three kicks a day (although not THAT hard - it's the Buddhist way)
You've got an admirable constitution
(Even if your country doesn't - yet)
You're the maharaja of Mahadandula,
The eminent emissary for Anawratha
The prince of Pazaundaung and the don of downtown.
You nap under tarpaulin awnings in divans of dirty longyis.
But they call you 'a dog of the people' - you take, without question, the greasy grains of biryani from the mosque, living palm to paw, scrounging splashes of mohinga from the steps of Sule.
No one calls you Kalar even though you're brown, a dog is a dog they say, a hound a hound.
How is it you, with your flea-bitten flanks, run freely through the ranks of streetsellers, all colours, immune to the insidious virus that creeps its way between the 'upstanding citizens' muttering above your pockmarked back...
It was a short reign, canine historians might say. Barely a monsoon's worth. Oversized and orange, your grave read 'YCDC', not RIP.
You died with a hunk of poisoned meat in your throat.
Perhaps the Lady should take note.
