The View of A Dog

I watch the dog watching us,
So intent are his eyes,
Old and wise,
Even as cataracts obstruct his vision.
I can feel his eyes on my back as I turn away,
I can hear his thoughts, feel the disgust in them.

The old dog is kind to me though,
He says that he sees something in me,
Something to remember.
He says he hears the way they talk about me,
Laugh about me, behind my back.

“She is too fat, too ugly. Her hair is
Too brown, too frizzy, too short.
Her eyes are too blue, too wide, too bright.”
They are so cruel, these people, my kind.

He says he smells my blood, scabbed over on my arms.
He says he sees my sadness, my face soaked in tears.
He says he hears my sobs late at night, alone in the dark.

I just tell myself that they are my friends,
And I believe it, trusting those who kill me.
And he just sighs and gets up off the floor,
Turning his back on me as so many others have done.
Maybe he has finally given up on me as well.