Inside, the edo-jin stir ashes to a dogged glow.
A pair of curs sniff the bridgehead and the rat
that passed there, now wallowing unreachable
in river silt. They turn their backsides
to our Hiro as he slips out of sight. The old town
droops into silence and the rains begin.
(Full poem online at The Bow-Wow Shop.)
I read this several times before I noticed the pun on ‘our Hiro’.