A dog sits waiting in the cold autumn sun.
Too faithful to leave, too frightened to run.
He's been here for days now with nothing to do,
but sit by the road waiting for you.

He can't understand why you left him that day.
He thought you and he were stopping to play.

He's sure you'll come back, and that's why he stays.
How long will he suffer? How many days?

His legs have grown weak, his throat's parched dry.
He's sick now from hunger, and falls, with a sigh.

He lays down his head and closes his eyes.
I wish you could see how a waiting dog dies.

Kathy Flood