James Thomas Hazard
Stirred
by the dry air
The
acrid odor of decay
And
rustle of stones and sticks
The
unseen hunter’s lair
Where
he waits and watches by day
Howling
and barking at night
He
prowls about our house for food
Leaving
piles of dark, liquid scat
It is a
disquieting sight
And
puts me in an angry mood
Nature
sneaking behind my back
The
running fight for bare subsistence
Fleas,
ticks, hunger and thirst
Open
wound and broken bone
What
life is worth this kind of existence?
I
wonder if these outcast beasts are cursed
Or if I no longer know my own home