The Tall Grass

The tall grass makes the dog feel young.
She mostly sleeps,
In the sun when she can find it
And inconveniently in the bed,
And on the couch,
(These days ignorant of the post man and other suspicious interlopers).
Her stumpy legs twitch
And she whines a descant
Hunting dream demon squirrels
In canine valhalla,
Tonight they'll store their nuts in hell.

But come walk about time
She's off like a bullet
Blurring into the tall grass
Where she bounds
And runs
And stops so short any holding her leash
Would lose their balance, if kept they going
Against the Anchor of Sirius, nineteen pounds of pure halt.

And every so often
She'll forget that the sidewalk awaits
And bounds happily into view
Then stops
Short
And turns to look at me, as if to say
"Not in front of the children"
And primly walks to the door
That she pushes open herself, thank you
To return
To her gainful
Employment
With the Department Of Slumber.


(c) 2012 Drew Nicholson