We beg on the street.
We roam the roads as puppet mongrels on a string.
We are roughened up. We are weak as can be.
We put you at risk and we are ready to risk anything.
There’s a longing in every astronaut-dog’s face.
A survival lottery in every litter’s birth.
As whistles go whistling off to space
bones come hurtling back down to Earth.
Would we run after them and bring them back?
Might we pick at the leftovers with the pack?
Would we wag our tail at any kind of kindness
or bark ’n’ snap out of fear of being defenceless?
We follow our noses.
We track down what we’re after.
We stray. We sleep.
We dream of having a master.
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Author: aprettykettleofpoetry
