Nothing but a hound dog
By Olivia Gwyn
I let my poem out the door
and it runs on short legs
to go see the world
He sniffs the grass
and doggedly chases
an audience
The squirrels easily outpace
him with other things
on their mind
It doesn’t take long of this
before he’s panting and looking
for something to drink
He plops down on the short hay bales
and scratches himself, wondering
if there’s something he should change
Eventually, he falls asleep
he didn’t notice, but a few people
paused to admire him as he slept
He would’ve watched his drool
if he’d known, but he’s a basset hound
and he didn’t know
By the time he wakes up
it’s cooling down
but the ground is still warm
And he doesn’t feel like looking
for an audience, so
he lopes back home
I open the door
and rub his ears
and he licks my face
And who cares about an audience anyway?
0 comments:
Post a Comment