It’s Not the Dog’s Fault, But The Instructor's
is what the morons teach at dog training school.
So it's home schooling again
where I haven't been able to teach Sonny
the most basic of tricks.
He ignores my commands
the way I blew off my father’s. “Sit!”
I insist but he heads for the door.
I recall my dad's irritation
when he'd demand that I work
on my homework "now".
"Lie down" I say, as I lay on the hardwood.
Sonny shuffles over, licks my face.
Why do things come easy to my friends?
Their dogs roll over or sit
with perfect posture on command.
"Okay, you win..." I say, throwing my arms
into the air, appealing to the clouds.
Yet at the park dogs everywhere run up
to greet Sonny as if he were a celebrity,
come to drop in on his old neighborhood.
Nearby red tulips part their lips.
I think of my friends' girlfriends,
with their lipsticked mouths.
My dates? They kiss me
as if a prison glass separated us,
a mere smudge their only hold on me.
"Your dog is so well behaved."
A young woman smiles at me,
though her manicured poodle
is eyeing me as if I sleep
in the hedges.
I nod modestly. "At times, though, he gets lonely....
he could use a dog to pal around with..."
and I glance down like a kindly college recruiter
at her pooch, seeing the potential there...
as if under my tutelage--and hers--
her poodle Pearl would surely rise
to the top of her class.
It’s Not the Dog’s Fault, But The Instructor's
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Re: It’s Not the Dog’s Fault, But The Instructor's
I like how the poem builds up to its natural ending.
Siva
Siva
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Re: It’s Not the Dog’s Fault, But The Instructor's
Nicely rendered.
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Re: It’s Not the Dog’s Fault, But The Instructor's
Siva, Ken -- thank you
Re: It’s Not the Dog’s Fault, But The Instructor's
yeah, this poem just rolls along with ease. It's the owner, yes.