I’m like a dog Biting the hands That come near, Growling at the wind And rotting in the rain. I’ve got maggot-infested wounds That I cannot clean And I cement into the Dying grass Until I am too tired to breathe And I cannot Bite the hand that comes for me.
But it seems this time, This set of weary hands Does not wish to harm me.
I am too tired to run away And I do my best to stray, But my wounds are washed clean And my skin does not itch or sting I smell of chamomile and calamine And the rot that had begun to eat me From the inside, it has subsided.
Finally this dying dog Is given a fighting chance And my bones retreat away From my emaciated frame And I am fat and happy and well-fed And my bed is warm, and it is not moldy And the rain does not drill into my face While I sleep.
I am not a dying dog anymore.
Dying Dog (2024)
