Last night at 2am I saw a street dog
jumping for the garbage hanging off the
pole by the side of the road-
salivating for the remains of our previous
fish feast.
My mother told me not to feed the street dogs.
They’ll follow you home, she said,
stand outside your apartment and howl,
but she never told me about the quiet ones.
the worst ones are quiet, they follow you like a shadow
never intruding, always hopeful, that one day
you’ll invite them inside to live.

Somedays I feel like the street dog, whose pain can only be
expressed through silences- waiting for you
to let me in.


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