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I saw him walking
down the street
dragging dead dog
behind him.
As he saw me
he stopped.
“Dog dead” he said,
pointing at carcass in tow.
A noose around its neck,
entrails exposed,
dead tongue awry,
lifeless eyes
covered with
thin film of dust
staring
at rising globe of fire
in disbelief.
“It happens” I replied.
He sat down,
I lit a cigarette,
offered him one.
“Dog dead”
he said again;
giving me another
chance to marvel
at his God like
insight.
“Your dog? ”
I enquirered,
though not
really caring.
“dog dead”
he answered,
grinning.
“ I take away”
I let it slip.
Got up,
tipped my hat,
wished him
“a nice day”
As life
somehow
kept on
happening
there
and elsewhere:
headstrong,
head on,
I dove
into the sun
lit streets.
Carsten Thomsen
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