Snap: The Soccer Ball
rested on the grassy verge;
nobody was about.
I slowed to a halt at the kerb;
my wife got out;
snaffled it up, passed
to the dog in the back.
We drove on chuckling guiltily
while he embraced it,
opened his jaws wide
to grip it not quite
able to bite into it
(hey, donšt puncture it, mate);
back home, pursued it
down the polished passage,
out the back door.
In the concrete yard
it skittered everywhere
between his nose and my boot.
More biting threatened it
with a short painful life.
Made for Adidas in Morocco,
made for agile humans
who know the rules -
bad should it now expire between
the tooth of the dog and
an old manšs toe. Expire?
While a ball-mad dog has life,
his ball, bouncy or flat, lives.
Each room in the house
has a ripped tennis-ball,
not dead but dormant.
The hound has them in thrall.
Wednesday 9 January 2008
Max Richards
Doncaster, Victoria
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