by Tony Vannoni
My little dog, ten years ago, was arrogant and spry.
His back was like a bended bow for arrows in his eye.
His step was proud, his bark was loud, his nose was in the sky,
But he was ten years younger then, and so, by God, was I.
The little gulls along the beach rose up with piping cry,
And as they flashed beyond his reach, I thought to see him fly.
If natural law defied him wings, that law he would defy,
For he could do unheard-of things, and so, at times, could I.
Ten years ago he split the air to seize what he could spy.
Tonight he bumps against the chair, betrayed by milky eye.
He seems to pant, "Time up! Time up!" My little dog must die,
And lie in dust with Hector's pup. So, presently, must I.