The dogs are the old men in the Lost City.
Ancient three-story apartments are walls to the sky.
Canals for reedy rivers long since petrified.
Iron bar cattails.
Listless foundation stone banks.
Endless fields of flowers
Naught but glazings on baked earthenware for sale.
All grass is flesh in the Duomo plaza.
Saints and statues the ruins of trees.
Life both warm and cold is dead
To the old men in the Lost City.
Relief is merely an excrement sans breeze.
An infirming of the mind’s paw
Without firmament of “ought to be”.
So they go.
Pissing on walls as their owners clean the kennel floor.
Old men wandering in a Lost City
Without cane or cane,
Past pointless corners
On pointless streets
To pointless, listless nowheres.
Condemned to live in the purgatory of another’s god.