The Brown Dog



This straight street

Called Kingston Avenue,

Black asphalt at the center,

Curbed, where people strew

The wreckage of technology,

Meals half consumed, in foil,

Cardboard boxes, black bagged mysteries,

Fruit and crusts left to spoil,

Old furniture, a broken toy or two,

Is where I walk from work

Back to my subway stop.

Here, where strange odors lurk,

Smells of pizza, acrid smoke and shit

Mingle with concussions out of stylish noise

Shamming music, fashioned to split

Sense from sensibility,

I met the large brown dog,

Seemingly unowned and free.

A retriever. I smiled and said hello.

Seated, mouth agape, he smiled back at me.

I stopped and stroked his head.

He responded with civility

And took halting steps to follow.

I have no space in my life

For a dog. He detected my friendliness

Was well intentioned but hollow.

A large sore, unattended, festered in his side.

He stopped, sat, watched me go.

I felt guilty, frustrated,

Helpless as God at Sarajevo.


2 thoughts on “The Brown Dog

  1. Immediate response upon reading this new addition:
    Who but you understands lonely and lost creatures? If the dog wants your friendship, you will find ways of helping him.
    The poem is depicting the world in which we live . It’s high time to take better care of this beautiful battered planet earth.
    Thank you for sharing this new piece.


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