By Nikoli Weir

It’s a cloudy Sunday morning.

The cold rain pounds against the street,

Running to the side and into the gutter.

It forms in small pools on the sidewalk

Sloshing as boots walk through it.

On the side of the road sits a man and a dog.

The man’s face is smeared with dirt,

And his gray beard is long and tangled.

His face is tanned and wrinkled

And his eyes are dark and baggy.

His dog sits beside him

With its head in his lap.

Its left eye is sewn shut

And its right paw is in a cast.

Slowly, the man begins to weep.

He lowers his old, tired head

And his eyes well up with salty tears.

With one hand he rubs his forehead,

With the other, he pets his dog.

Quitely, his dog whines.