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As we feed the pile of crows their breakfast of greed,

And toss them our watches, and earrings, and wedding bands,

That wretched dog looms,

Uncared for – a pile of sticks and tongue,

Wrapped in a blanket more mold than fur,

Eyes both wide – the size of desperation,

And empty, resident hope long since departed.

It doesn’t stalk so much as amble, and trip,

And fall, and rise and shake and collapse once again,

Like a tattered rug, plastering our shadows.

A throat of shredded rope, unable to carry a sound.

Though we remember how those chords rang once, when we were young.

A beautiful howl from a beautiful thing,

With a coat of gold, and a hand on its head,

Until then we grew to avoid it,

Until then we grew further to step over it without mind.

It will lick water from your hand, still.

I tried it, fearing a bite I trembled there,

Before the ragged pants of an old friend,

But it only bowed for me.

Still it bowed and drank.