Him that dieth in the city shall the dogs eat,
and him that dieth in the field shall the fowls of the air eat,
but in the city, before he dieth, he shall be kept awake
by the classless barking of neurotic dogs
all through the deadlocked, bourbon-coloured night,
whereas in the field,
he shall sleep soundly until the day he dieth,
or, on the few occasions when he can't sleep,
he shall marvel at the scale of the howling wind
or the rain that presses the full span of its body,
its head and shoulders too,
against his melted, lightless cottage window,
having bothered to come all the way up from the coast
just to visit him, and without being called,
like a dog that never knew of city patios,
and he shall wonder where in the gorgeous hell of it all
the parliament of fowls that govern the air,
those same birds that will one day eat out his sides,
have gone to hide their cranky little heads.
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