Poodles on the windshield
have no lives of their own.
They're helpless without anyone
so sad and all alone.
Just what do they think about
displayed for all the world.
Maybe of the cold hard glass
on which they all are curled.
With noses warm and desiccate
and eyes with tracks of tears,
do nothing for their confidence
or hide them from their fears.
They lie awake in the dark of night
`til the day becomes anew.
With sagging ears and matted hair
that comes from morning dew.
They begin to warm as day goes by
with sad looks on their faces.
Maybe they dream and wonder `bout
being in different places.
The night returns so cold and dark
and stars so fill the skies,
the moonlight might reveal a tear
gleaming in their eyes.
But why they hurt I do not know
or if they can be healed.
The poodles live in mystery
upon the cold windshield.
- David L. Papp