The dog bestows her favorite ball
placed gently at my feet
A spit encrusted gob of snot
Gleams bright with phlem and heat.
Gooey gifts caught in the muck
Grasped firm by jaw and jowl,
Her eyes plead – “once, just pick it up.
It’s really not so foul.”
With gentle paw she tries to lure
A toss so she may seek
I gag to smell its pong of rot
Knees, not resolve grow weak.
I shall not join your hoped for sport
Throw neither up nor out
Perhaps a stick, perhaps a bone
But not that ball, don’t pout.
Still, icebergs melt neath that warm stare
How can I dare refuse?
One hand graced with a gentle lick
Nearby, that orb of ooze
Ah luck, oh joy, a throwing tool
By some good soul created
I scoop the ball to fling far hence
But dog and I frustrated
Twisting with St. Vitus dance
A whirling, woman mad
Half-heartened dribbled ball fell flat
And winded I fell, sad
A youth steps forth in naïve ease
And slings the ball afield
The pup in joy leaps to the chase
And to my pain I yield
My shoulder wrenched
My muscles pulled
Need days of pain to mend
While that sweet dog with drool drenched ball
Looks for another friend.