Kolkata dogs with their single mixed blood
lay passed out on sidewalks of midday heat.
Bitch's tits sag dusting tired milk in mud
while sires long to coax some scraps from the street.
They bathe in showers dusty, dry and stale,
and scratch in mindless strokes their flea ridden skin,
leaving gold coats splotchy, raw and pale,
their flesh thin and loose where meat should have been.

A litter sifts some litter under cars
as the sun fades in the afternoon haze.
They will sleep beneath a blanket of no stars,
hunger, not light, will wake them to the day.
And in the morning few will have survived,
left to be mourned by those barely alive.

This poem originally published in Eckerd Review