Capitalist Dogs, Socialist Dogs

In Latin America there are two sorts of dogs:

One kind barks at you from behind the coiled razor of each house,

The other is as feral as any upstanding citizen,

And scavenges night and day.

There is a look of fright and non-chalance

In the eyes of your average Capitalist dog,

His hind is slender and his belly slack--

For he has agreed with the Masters that food is scarce.

He can be seen proudly trotting the sidewalks,

Or sniffing the ravines and dumps.

After a fashion he is sleek and natural

And well feigns the gestures of the scavenging crowd

Through which he passes, imitating their motion,

Assimilating each gesture of diffidence or disdain

With amazing aplomb:

Hurtling himself forward, in spite of pain.

One rainy afternoon, as the sole of my shoe beat

Loose on the riddled pavement,

By the door of the el viejo who cobbles shoes

For a price none can afford,

My better passed me,

Keeping up that regular lope and lurch of neck

That so surely mark the fallen;

Moving sideways like a snake

To avoid attracting attention

To his crusted coat and bleeding palms.

His hurt gazed was averted,

Poor, but too proud to concede;

Only hoping that no cop or straggler

Would stone him for a joke,

Hoping only to pass

For normal, and thus live:

His gaze diffuse but rent

Like that of all Capitalist Dogs;

Prancing with high but pretended purpose

While desperate within,

A play with no act left.

Fascinated, I turned to watch him ascend the hill,

Head erect, body faltering, trotting jautily

Under the burden of himself.

He held himself so severely

You see, and this I could admire,

But the charcoal-stained street

Is no place for heroes.

By contrast, your average Socialist dog

Is known by his slow gait, subdued eyes,

And calm approach, welcoming death.

A stillness and terrible berevement

Look-out from his shocked eyes

As he claws garabge bereft of a scrap.

It is as if he has already died from hunger,

And now knows that he had only one life to lose.

It is not true that the Socialist dog

Demands a hand-out;

He has simply come to terms with the world

As it is: his pride is vanquished.

If you stand by a gate

A Socialist dog will sometimes appear, shriven, silent

Neither looking at you nor approaching;

Not sitting, only standing, only staring to the side

Never lifting his head, never gazing in your eyes

Never asking, never pleading,

Only standing, a mute witness of himself

Beneath you, beside your door.

It is rather you who will look down into his empty sockets,

Eyes that now seem to silently assert

That hunger should not be,

Yet poised as if by accident and purposeless as stone,

Perceiving, perceving something.

Understanding at last that something

In this world is missing.

And so he stands,

Awaiting you, because he will not beg for the grace

He has discovered, nor utter a single sound,

As he awaits you

To enter at his door.

Will Morgan, San Jose December, 2011