STREET TREATS

                    Our nosegator Gyp inhales the news
                    As on our daily walks she scours the streets;
                    While Tig and I are mainly after views,
                    Our Gypsy’s hunting savory, crunchy treats—
                    Bones of chicken legs that workers toss
                    From their truck windows into curbside leaves,
                    Now mingled with the fallen Spanish moss:
                    This surely is the worst of my pet peeves,
                    For suddenly I hear a crack and crunch
                    When Gyp, who’s snuffling curbside debris,
                    Exhumes a bone and nabs it for her lunch,
                    Defying me to try to pry it free,
                         Which, now and then, I’m lucky to have done,
                         Risking a bite, but mainly Gypsy’s won.