Two old dogs with patchwork hides, Stitchin’ miles through southern sides, Sniffin’ dreams behind the diner bin, Where the hush starts, and the ghosts begin. Their paws are maps, their ribs tight drum, Their nights too long, their days gone numb. Found half a burger near the alley rail, Tastes like Friday, worn and pale. No leash, no light, no holy home, Just the song of stones and styrofoam. Rain might fall, but they don’t pray, They just curl tight till it walks away. One limps east, one waits a spell, Trading stories dogs don’t tell. Sleep’s a corner where the freight rolls slow, Dreams spill out in tobacco glow. Tail to tail by the thunder track, Two old mongrels, ain't turnin' back. No kingdom calls, no collar shine, Just a junkyard moon and a crooked spine. No leash, no light, no holy home, Just the song of stones and styrofoam. Rain might fall, but they don’t pray, They just curl tight till it walks away. Bone brothers bound by rust and roam.
