Beats me but coming
After a hard day’s scrounging
For scraps, I’d wager
Those two dead-
Tired, bedraggled
Strays that spend
Their nights curled
Up on threadbare welcome
Mats on opposite sides
Of the main drag—one
In front of the bakery
And the other
In front of the laundry—
Most likely imagine that
As long as they can
Sleep and dream
Of warm doghouses
And doggy food galore,
There will always be
The prospect of waking
Up one fine morning still
Very much alive, yet for some
Strange reason always
Wanting more.
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