By Kennedi Hosey

Sea of people, yelling and waving, placing their joy in dirt paws. 

I’m an imitator among spectators as I stand, hands cupped, waiting for the tide. 

Two cents and my pocket’s crumpled dollar on number twelve because that’s all I have and I always find more.

I find myself here often, day after day, week after week. 

The only face I recognize is the blank one staring up at me from the bottom of 

my trousers. 

I have nothing left to give as I had lost everything. 

Number twelve turns into number thirteen but I stay planted.

The dog is wilted, a hint of the past only represented by its rostered spot. 

Two more cents and I won’t move because I’ve been in this spot before.

Only twelve spots from the tide and I’ve continued to push even though I’ve never won. 

I won’t abandon paws caked in mud as I don’t feel clean myself. 

Number thirteen trails behind with all my change and I can’t help but follow, 

cheering for the companion.

Poem inspired by ‘I Bet on Losing Dogs’ by Mitski