Fallen King

Crowds of people pass my perch.

Eyes blind to my poor condition.

Hurrying to the office, restaurants and church.

Shoes scrape and heels clap, transporting owners on unknown missions.

Nobody speaks to me. I’m a disease. A beast.

A businessman passes too close; I sniff at his closed fist.

He swings, denying me of a necessary feast.

My tail tucks and I run off my perch. I wont be missed.

Night splotches the sky like spilled ink.

In an alley I lay, eyes folding closed.

I’m back. Where I am king. They love me without a blink.

Eager hands approach my nose

Dripping food and life and care.

They have a name for me, a yard, a bed.

I am a king with hair brushed and fair.

But they left me. To them I’m dead.

I crawl from my bed of cardboard and trash.

Alone. I shake my matted coat with a lurch.

I am a fallen king, a beast, covered in ash.

Crowds of people pass my perch

Eyes blind.