CWTF III - We Want Our Dead Dogs Back

The windswept streets lie eerily silent
Their chipped gutters becoming a recent home
To crumpled soda cans and frayed milk cartons
A grainy black and white face stares back at me from one
A girl I used to be familiar with
I divert my gaze and keep on walking

The tormented howls still resonate
As I pass twisted and disfigured street signs
Though I know them well enough not to forget
Charcoal colored clouds plume from the factory smoke stats
But Collingwood Street sits empty

The candy cane arms are held in the defensive position
Red lights flashing trigger memories of ambulances
Still no engine is in sight
I duck underneath and carry on my way

I'm nearing the other side of town
But legs are starting to set like cement
Tumble to already cut knees
Crawling the rest of the way
Leaving a sticky trail of seeping blood
And apprehension behind me
As her house comes into sight