Come Home, Little Dogs

Breathe for the pups,
Spaniels and Beagles,
Who rebel the Welsh winds
When no one’s inside,
Who howl and call to taut, smokey skies
For their empty stomachs
Starved by the nine-to-five
White-collar office clerks.
Bound to backyards,
Chained to the kennels,
No room to lie on the concrete slabs
Underneath the washing line.
I’m sorry, pooch,
Seconds only tick one at a time.

Come home, little dogs,
Escape those holes you dug out.
Sit on the other side of this
Brick portcullis
And eat your chicken and trout.

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