This is the rambling of an almost forgotten dog, forgotten to self, forgotten to cats, to other dogs, and to the world. And he waits — thinking and scribbling, and thinking and scribbling for precisely nothing. And his wait — tragic in fate, existence and essence, mocks him.
“But I don’t“, he said, “want a place of my own in this city of blinding lights; I don’t yearn for rooting myself in the urban diaspora.”
Like a prisoner in my own accords
Like a ghetto swarmed by acquainted ghosts
Like a feeble thought gone astray
Like a speck of dust dancing in sunray
Amid the chaos, coming home to a pair of wagging tails, to cure me of me