Thomas Pitre Poet Free verse

The Dog Exercising Machine

Yes, I know, I should be alongside.
Age and bad knees 
dictate that I am inside the cab
with a long, green leash
so Katie can run close by
every morning, 
for the last seven years
in rain, snow and sunshine. 


She runs in earnest ( can a dog do that ? ) 
Her tongue is back against her cheek.
Her ears scan and sweep 
and swivel around
left and right 
listening for something ahead 
or behind
as she gallops, trots, 
saunters, paces
 at my side.  


Sometimes in the dark, 
sometimes, just as the sun is coming up, 
but always in the morning, 
when the smells 
of the deer and elk 
are still fresh in the grass 
and the berry bushes 
along the fence.

I love to see her run.  I love to hear her run.
I can hear the jangle jangle of her tags and her collar --
her leathery, black ears flapping against her head.  
her breathing and sometimes
a snort or puff as her strong, wide paws hit their mark 
ker-plop, ker-plop.
Nails dig into the ground
 little wisps of grass and dirt, flying.


Now, her ears are back over her head and
the leathery tips almost touch 
as her back legs push 
like a rabbits
working in time
driving her faster.


When the snow is here
her feet beat their rhythm
in the icy white stuff.
Crunch, crunch, crunch,
the first marks in the snow, 
and maybe -- the
marks, in line with the truck's tracks,
there 
the next morning.


When she stretches all the way out
in a full run, her tongue is out  -- 
far out of her mouth, 
almost lashing against
her cheek.
Her strong back legs
the rounded, hard muscle under the shiny, black coat,
push her along 
and I wonder
how all those legs and feet work
in synchronization 
as she concentrates on her task 
or has her eye 
on something ahead
that she has got to get to
now!

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Denis Joe February 5, 2009 at 5:41 AM An excellent narrative full of pathos. The poem has a sense of urgency about it from the firts line onwards. the humour is great and knowing, capturing and excusing an aspect of life for those 'in the know' to empathise wilst giving a feeling of universiality to it. The narrative acts as a story on one level and at first, it seems that it is the construction that makes this a poem. But further reading forces that fact on the reader.