Follow Softly

Follow the dogs softly through
the rain soaked cobblestone streets
and past by them
like the smell of mud on boots and pants
and the grass drowning from its drink.

They know where the garbage is, where the food is,
where subsistence lives.
That natural survival you were lacking,
but can see in the dogs lurking ahead,
devours the best rational and logic while you swim in yours.

And you have the sense to be jealous
and follow softly on; like a shadow while the sun sets,
larger than the subject but less significant in nature's eye.
Fall to your knees, dirty and scuff you shining shoes
and tear the knees of your new pants,
for the dogs know the answer to the sad sort of question that,
in asking, has ripped you apart.

Arise back to birth lost child,
mother is there waiting, wanting.