The last wolf hurried toward me

through the ruined city

and I heard his baying echoes

down the steep smashed warrens

of Montomery Street and past

the ruby-crowned highrises

left standing

their lighted elevators useless

Passing the flicking red and green

of traffic signals

baying his way eastward

in the mystery of his wild loping gait

closer the sounds in the deadly night

through clutter and rubble of quiet blocks

I hear his voice ascending the hill

and at last his low whine as he came

floor by empty floor to the room

where I sat

in  my narrow bed looking west, waiting

I heard him snuffle at the door and 

I watched

He trotted across the floor

he laid his long gray muzzle

on the spare white spread

and his eyes burned yellow

his small dotted eyebrows quivered

Yes, I said,

I know what they have done.