Mutt

This poem nips at my heels
like an ill-mannered pup,
but when I turn to grab him by the scruff
all I find is a whorl of air
and the tickle of canine perfume.

This poem pants in my ears at night,
licks my face when I wake,
whimpers, whines, and wags,
begging to be written.

But this poem will not come when I call.
When it is time to work, he is at play,
chasing squirrels or rolling in the compost.
This poem hates baths.

I search the woods and long grasses,
seeking out this unruly poem.
And when I return home,
empty handed, I can tell
he has been climbing all over the furniture,
lounging on the sofa,
tongue lolling and eyes glazed.

But he is gone,
and I have nothing left to write
but an impression in a cushion
and a pale tuft of fur.