GOUTAM DUTTA
The dust and grime never bothered him.
The filth and muck from the drains was his playground.
He lazed in the scorching sun,
His tongue hanging out
like a piece of pink cloth
hanging on a clothesline to dry.
When darkness descended in the lanes,
He almost became invisible;
His pitch black coat accomodating
all the darkness that seeped in
between the hairs of his fur.
He used to welcome me every morning,
Trotting at a quickened pace
on sighting me
and then jumping up
to leave his dusty or
muddied paw prints on my track bottom.
His greed of the biscuit,
snatching it from my hand
always induced a smile.
He was a reason for happiness in the mornings,
Till that speeding van ran over him.
He lay in the scorching sun,
A mess of blood and entrails
And was a reason for happiness
for the crows
That feasted on his entrails.