Stray Mutt Poem by Sonny Rainshine

No Pekinese, no poodle,
no twinkly-eyed terrier,
his supper was served
in garbage cans and backyards.

Every evening he would slink
up to the front doors
of the neighborhood,
tail recessed, head down,
whimpering.

His fur was spotty
from untreated mange
and scars from the scalding
hot water
of unsympathetic residents,
having seen him
lurking outside
the sparkling white
doors with the musical chimes
and chrome knockers.

Some say dogs don’t feel
the way we do,
but this one does—
all living beings do.
His eyes express
all unkindnesses,
and his body, like
an interpretive dancer’s
has been contorted
by barrages of merciless
beatings and hard words.
But yet he still
makes his rounds
every evening,
not understanding
why no one cares
about him and his simple
need for food
and for love.