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Gray
matted coat,
cold
soiled hands shoved in pockets
like
they've lost their mittens,
head
shamefully tucked like a tail between legs,
aimless
gait always goes against traffic
where impatient shouts blare like car horns
and unwelcome harangues hurl like old shoes.
This
fear-infested transient often feels cornered
and
flees any friendly approach,
only
to paw for scraps in trash cans
and
prowl through backalley shadows,
yet
yowls for a saucer-of-milk face...
this
calico-like confusion usually collects
an
empty hand, a slammed door,
or
a stiff broom remark.
Each
night ends curled up on some doorstep
while
another day begins
with
a hunger-driven heart
and
a gray matted coat.
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