There are stray dogs
who spend the small hours
drinking rain from the gutters
and listening to the blues
through half-open pub doors.
They know.
They know the man with the guitar
is just as fucked as they are.
They know that crooked note
isn't music —
it's a cry for help
wearing old shoes.
One mongrel
rests his muzzle against the door.
The saxophone groans.
The dog closes his eyes.
Perhaps he remembers
something he never had.
Perhaps a home.
Perhaps an owner.
Perhaps God.
Inside,
the men drink
to forget they're alive.
Outside,
the dogs listen to the blues
because they've already forgotten
how to wait for salvation.
When the pub closes,
the music dies.
The men go home.
The dogs remain.
Dawn lights a cigarette
in the mouth of the city.
And they stay there,
faithful as the condemned,
waiting for the next song
nobody ever wrote for them.
enitnatsnoC oãoJ --