Bum Dog is sleeping, tail wagging, in his spot near the lake, pink shapla sprouting from lily pads. The humid air, mosquitoes, and bad thoughts are sticking to him. His mind, that puddled mess, won’t stay away from his sons; half are stray-dog-dead, died under a government funded gun. The rest lost their balls when the mayor got kind. Now they won’t talk to him, and he won’t talk to them.

Bum Dog tells mean jokes to himself, points out how he is going fat and hungry all at the same time. In the daylight hours, people are so protective over their food, shoo him away from tables with boot and broom. But in the evening, the park empties out, and he feasts in kebab cafes’ garbage. No control. The binge eating—all that chicken and spice—hurts so good in the moment, and so bad later on. It makes it hard to sleep through the night, so instead, he sleeps in the morning and for most of the day.

Bum Dog falls in love all the time. He’s done with bitches. Likes women in saris instead. He laps behind them, black tongue lolling. There are a few, especially the woman sheathed in green, that don’t seem to mind him and his licking at their heels. He dreams of this green mahil and what their life could be, sleeping, bumming, side by side.

Outside the park, his boys bark at passing cars. They try to almost get run over. Sometimes they fail, cut it too close.

Strutting, they wear their clipped cocks like a badge of honor—

Look here, they seemed to be saying. The man took my balls. I am the last of my line. I am the conclusion.

It is sad, watching his pups bully the streets, so Bum Dog stays away, decides instead to sleep in his spot by the shapla and the lilies, dreaming his life away.