Like a hyena?

He is the man who makes friends
On the road, he is someone who looks for stars
on the dusty bylanes of a choking
city, a city, that's unaware of its slow death,
like most of us.

Well, most of us.

His friends, four legged, follows him
to his address of staying and
goodbyes. He sometimes offer them brisk end of
broken biscuits and them being his friends
ask for more, they speak of not much-but
the language of old people.



Often, they nudge his feet, and for a while he feels loved in
their sinless saliva that kills bacteria, and
after a while the city must always churn up
and throw out all of that-
those
vestiges of lost feelings.


Why he wonders.


Fairy nights are meant for fairies
and poets, but for his puppy
friends  there are not many
nights as they roll up to the
wheels of a
strange device leaving him
all alone-over and over
again.

Hush now.
The night's quiet and the puppies must sleep,
and friends must seek each other out in the
pleasure of a wistful silence;


and I?




I must write till the end of the earth.
I must weep like a Hyena.