The city is a raw, open carcass.
I rip into it with my teeth,
tools and weapons alike.
We are bred from our surroundings;
I was born in August,
the son of Sirius and Sol.
Let me tell you what it is to be brought low:
it is a streamlined form of hatred,
to awake in unrelenting heat,
shoved down among vulgarities, drifting
as their glares catch you at every corner.
Is he a threat?
You can watch them drag their ribs through the dust
while you greedily tear into your scraps
behind cooking temple-blocks
(not the scraps they threw at you,
but the ones you fought for).
You're vicious by nature,
but wary by choice.
Asphalt ignites with my stride
as I stray down alleys and sidewalks,
listening for the chain-link's ring.
I can adapt to one-way tides
and dead-end names,
but my soles dig into the concrete
and I barrel down the veins
when I hear the sunset's sympathy.
The fenced dogs don't understand;
enclosed worlds don't appeal to me.
They don't dare invite me into their homes
for fear that I'd track the sunspots inside.
I'd far rather take my chances
and offer low growls through bared teeth
to the collar-men and their sweat stains.
It is a hostile way of life.