At the Crossroads

At the busy junction near my house I espy the bitch – that mutt Who used to be the clandestine lover Of my Tommy, gone, two years hence.

She was never a pretty dog, black and mangy Her swollen teats sweeping the street Her rough coat coated with dirt – Yet - she was my Tommy’s lover.

The dog has turned quite old – She limps and is skinny Her face has turned grey And fur fallen off in patches.

I wonder if anybody would miss her When she dies, sick, starved or a roadkill.

It is midday; I wipe my bald head I limp; my knees hurt lately I sweat, I palpitate In the glass windows of a shop I glimpse An old man, dragging his feet.

The dog passes by me, turns right; I turn left and head home.