(Shelter) Guys and Dogs

 

He wakes before the sun, dressing in the dark with quiet hands

Shoes clutched to chest, he nimbly pads down between the rowed, smudge-faced boys;

the babies, toddlers, skinned-kneed kids and finally, breathlessly, past the oldest boys

he turns to grab the book on the small table, then quickly to the door

Lifting up the rust encrusted door latch, squeezing between crack

Outside, thick fog hugs the boy’s skin, threatening mildew on the book’s frayed pages.

Tucking the book into his jacket he makes his way,

kicking through piles of leaves and stepping over crushed cans

When he reaches the building, the boy walks along the side walls until he reaches the back and climbs the fence

He quickly moves to the cages and before the scruffy creatures have time to think something wrong

The boy sits in the dirty courtyard, takes the battered book from his jacket, and reads

them tales of lands without bars or cages