My Neighbor's Toughy

It is sheer hyperbole To call him so, A creature much different From Van Winkle’s Wolf, Who would snarl at his own master. Or the proverbial Marcus, Almost always sleepy. Maybe a year old, He is, The softest canine I have ever come upon, Of a creamy color, Cherry-red nose, And lips of the same shade— Pleasing features, in short, A cleanly creature With a red collar that suggests That he is my neighbor’s possession. Anyway, always eager to please, Even as I am easy to please: His moan, his wag, His rock, and shake, Even on the very first day We met— Love at first sight, as it were. But…the iron gate— Always between him and me, Strong, well-painted, accursed gate. With of course gaps between the bars For me to insert my fingers, For him to sniff at them, Grab them with his pearly teeth Touch them with his tender paws. But the iron gate— That ironically reminds me Of Frost's line: Good fences make good neighbors! --R. V., Ram