Dogs at Best

I have become a hungry dog, now,
kept out among the brush fires-
at the edge of the city-
where the dead are gathered up.
You can't discipline me now
by beating me with rolled up paper.
Paper-with the words and history you choose-
is for the wind.
I may be mangled, matted, and starved,
but I have teeth and strong jaws
that will clutch the darkness
and rip it from the seams
that sit atop the highest praises
of the very men
who said we were nothing but dogs at best