An Old Dog. . .

Breathe in.
The wet sound echoes hollow through your lungs.

Breathe out.
Again that rasp.  Again an effort of your tongue.

Do you recall, in some far corner of the brain,
a young day when all your body flexed to fetch a tennis ball,
and all the world and life was focused in that chase?

A day when leaves flew, brown and red, across your face,
and grass rose green to slow your pace?
A time when puddle, tree or iron wall
your joy and will could never stall?
A day, a moment, when your only aim
was just to seize a bounding object come all hell or rain?

Holding your head in my lap I hear
the labor of your breathing slow and thin.
I remember, and I rub your ear
to say, go now, old friend.


2 thoughts on “An Old Dog. . .

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