Stray
dogs get kicked.
Stray
dogs get sticks thrown at them.
Tail
between their legs, they run.
The
ribs are showing.
There
is no knowing where their next meal’s coming from.
They
join a pack of other scruffy mutts and then attack
a sweet
old lady of eighty-five,
and
eat her arms while she is yet alive,
screaming
in her garden there,
a bonnet
fallen from gray hair,
until
a car pulls up and blows its horn.
Those
dogs then laughing, laughing, laughing run,
having,
having stray dog fun.
SKJ, 5/9/15
