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Feral Dogs

Feral Dogs In Ocho

Tourists never see them,
The locals rarely too,
They wander in the day and nightime,
Unnoticed, like the legless beggar
Who panhandles at the clock tower,
Stoically alone - not out of view.

Size doen't matter, age or hue,
Medium, I guess, tan, brown, gray,
Singly, occasionally in twos.
Speechlesssly, are they tongueless?

Never barking, no whimpering, no sound,
There'll be here tomorrow,
Timeless street dwellers,
Not fat, squat, long legged, barrel chested,
Not lengthy, no distinctive markings,
Not slender, short, not thin...
Certainly not round, no home,
No place, no bed.

The other morning, before the sun arose,
I walked down Main Street,
A wanderer on my own.

In front of a drab shop near the market,
Corn broom sweeping proprietor,
Let one sleeping dog lie.

Was the creature alive or dead?
He swept assiduously about the feral mutt,
No stirring, nudged the body
Once, twice, three times...
She did not scowl, growl, resist at all.
On unsteady underpinnings
Went on her way, mutely in acceptance,
Barely alive, in old age,
Unrecognized, unfed.

Author: Roy Schoenberg - Bay Shore, New York, USA

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