The Symphony of the Squeaky Ball

What if it was paradise, what if we were symphonies?
– Rob Thomas, Lonely No More

We have this pup.
Sixteen pounds of scrappy sass,
trembled tumultuous tremors
and holy
terrier energy.

Loves squeaky balls.

More than life itself. Runs
with two in her mouth, always
after a third.
that’s her ball
(-ad) song.

But not for long.
The final canine touch:

Guts them like small rodents,
removing the heart of the matter:
the squeaker.

Still loves ’em when they’re
silent, though not quite as

I wonder. How often
do we take our own
small and fragile paradise,
and tear it






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2 Responses to The Symphony of the Squeaky Ball

  1. Daisy says:

    This is one of your best poems EVER. It’s so completely perfect.

  2. I love this. I have an english mastiff, much bigger than your 16 pounder, and she does the same thing. The other day she was so excited – she found a paper bowl outside and was running around in complete ecstasy – partly, I’m sure, because I wasn’t seizing it from her – and then, of course, she proceeded to shred it to pieces. And I thought about your wonderful metaphor here – what a wonderful, philosophical poem.

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