Old Dog

I grew tired of having

nothing and no one,

watching my features change

like the seasons.

A man only gets one Spring,

and The Fall brings

irreversible changes.

I had watched them move on

and find love with other men effortlessly;

many even had families now.

I grew tired of cursing the trees

each time a leaf fluttered

almost soundlessly to the ground.

I would look upon the mounds

of decaying leaves with grim expectation.

Across the street, I watched an old mutt

lapping water from a dirty bowl,

a chain hung about the neck

and extended to a post driven into the ground.

There was a weathered wooden kennel

that leaned slightly to one side,

reminded me of my own home,

sad and sagging in that way.

I knew dogs had dichromatic vision,

but I wondered if they dreamed in full color.

I wondered if, like me, they dreamed of escaping

this nightmare black-and-white town.