Stray Dogs

There are stray dogs

who spend the small hours

drinking rain from the gutters

and listening to the blues

through half-open pub doors.

They know.

They know the man with the guitar

is just as fucked as they are.

They know that crooked note

isn't music 

it's a cry for help

wearing old shoes.

One mongrel

rests his muzzle against the door.

The saxophone groans.

The dog closes his eyes.

Perhaps he remembers

something he never had.

Perhaps a home.

Perhaps an owner.

Perhaps God.

Inside,

the men drink

to forget they're alive.

Outside,

the dogs listen to the blues

because they've already forgotten

how to wait for salvation.

When the pub closes,

the music dies.

The men go home.

The dogs remain.

Dawn lights a cigarette

in the mouth of the city.

And they stay there,

faithful as the condemned,

waiting for the next song

nobody ever wrote for them.

 enitnatsnoC oãoJ ---