An End Like This

There’s a place, not too far away from my house,
Where runs a lonely stretch of concrete; so lonely
That you can hear the grunting and choking whine
Of mongrels, sniffing again and again at clichéd places,
Looking for absent morsels. When the darkness closes
In, all you can see is pairs of shining eyes and the sound
Of racing wheels lurking in the distance. How horrible
Would it be to die now! To die thinking about the absent!
Alone. Unwanted. Uncared. How horrible would it be, to
Watch the little one take short, bouncy steps towards a
Blind, lethargic wheel! How horrible would it be to die
On this concrete, without footprints, like the million
Mongrels that die without collars…


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