He often came and sat outside my door
And gazed at me with puzzled, wondering eyes,
Like those of humankind by grief made wise --
Who feel that life has little left in store.
And yet, he never looked unkempt and poor
As if he deemed a meaty bone a prize;
Instead, it seemed he wore a human guise
As though the heart of man he would explore.
Then one night on the street he followed me
Persistently, until I turned and said
Sharp, angry words, which made him quickly flee --
His spirit wounded and uncomforted,
And now at last I think I comprehend:
He only craved an understanding friend.
Margaret E. Bruner
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