Story like a Dog
If a man gets a dog
in his head–say a stray hound,
a cerebral bitch–should he throw
her a bone? Should he invite her in?
She could be the retriever
that stays and begs, the scratch
that holds her little paw and shakes
the tail that fetches pen.
And paper. She might be the right mutt,
the one that lies down to be written.
Or she might run round and round
worrying his pencil in her sharp little teeth
until he throws it again and she fetches.
She might just mope there on the carpet
while he scratches out, whining
and snuffling through her fleas.