In His Dreams
I listen to his sad refrain.
Won’t I please throw the ball again?
The fright that I will not comply
is reflected in each eye.
They vilify and then they plead.
Throwing’s a must, not just a need.
As I accept the ball and throw,
long and hard and sure and low,
his retrieval skills are so efficient,
a dozen lofts are not sufficient.
He gives a snort, is here, then there
to catch the ball while in the air.
This small tangled ball of hair
curled up on the bottom stair—
I know he’s dreaming when I hear his yip,
see running legs, a sudden dip
of jaw that signals his success.
He’s caught the ball I threw, I guess.
His need to fetch so strong and deep,
I’m sure he does it in his sleep.
I wonder if I fully stand
within his dream, or is a hand
the only evidence at all
of one who throws the yearned-for ball?