I found a dog dead by the lavender
on 9th Street. Its joints were bent at weird angles
like a pickup had run over it, and I admit I kept
walking, left it to decay by the trash cans, dripping
bleach and abandonment. Are you angry?
There is no other honest way to say it. I passed
it again on my way to work and someone kinder
than me had covered its body with a stained
towel. A cardboard sign read rest in peace.
I wondered if the owner was the one who hit
the dog, or if maybe the owner would find it and bury
it in their yard of dead loved things. Probably
not. The next day, a beggar on Park Ave was selling
bundles of dried lavender for twenty cents apiece
and I bought one to take back to my apartment,
put it in an empty Lacroix can on the counter.
Is there anything else to say? On warm nights I lay
on the sidewalk and surrender to the concrete. I have only
seen the stars once, when the power went out over
New York. I don’t know if I’ll ever see them again. Maybe
one day we will stop bleeding in the streets like animals.
