Snorting, scratching,
dragging you out the door—
to watch them piss on trees,
to bark at the moon,
to make you notice
how alive dirt feels.
You stopped waiting for misery
like a bus always late.
You bought kibble instead.
You learned joy is stupid,
loud,
slobber on your jeans,
paw in your gut
at 3 a.m.
People had left
with doubts and debts mid-air.
Dogs left nothing
but the steady work
of tomorrow’s day,
and tomorrow’s after that.
You found yourself surrounded,
by bodies that press close,
by eyes that gaze steady,
by choruses that ask nothing
except that you stay.
And somewhere in the racket you heard it:
The low hum of tribe.
