This Dog
There is a dog
A blood hound,
An ebony glare,
Finagled into believing
That the Sun is amused
In his own waiting.
There is a dog,
A surfeit among the pack
Carrying a luggage,
Meandering past the pavements,
Stops in his traversing
To freeze beside a street lamp,
Or an anticipating mailbox
Of satiety.
The dog sniffed,
And thrashed the vestiges
With his woebegone paw
Of gentle touch.
Two fangs blatantly lingering
In his snout-like structure of a jaw.
His eyes lost mirth,
Look at this dog of nonchalance,
Dog of lost chance,
Of tacit howls and wails,
Of taciturn oneness.
This servile creature,
Disgusted,
Bereaved,
Mutilated,
Castigated by grandiose decisions
For filthy, frigid and disgusting entities.
This dog,
This acquiescent dog
Can no longer vie.
Perhaps in his spine,
In his canine structures,
In his aroma of a disheveled beast,
He is dog-tired.
Mundanely exhausted.
poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
Added by Poetry Lover
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