Poems for the Soul

Old Dog

His perpetual limp rises to the challenge:

he races to the tennis ball,

old, frail, but exploding with energy,

refusing to act his age (fifteen).

He teeters like a weeble,

returns the ball with a few noisy chomps,

every inch coated with slobber.

Rump in the air, tail frantically wagging, he looks up at me,

and cautiously, as though picking up a mouse,

I take the ball lightly to begin the game again.

Weeble watches closely,

never loses sight of the ball.

Age slowly creeps into the game.

The stench of a sewer rises in his breath

His limbs move slower weighed down.

Specks of blood appear on the ball.

Breaths escaping loudly, scarred tongue hanging,

Weeble holds the ball.