Bobette Bryan's Poetry
His Own Thing
The mastiffs t-r-u-d-g-e-d
across the porch toward the
stairs as if they were semi-encased
in quick-setting cement,
as is their like,
and that after several minutes
of my coaxing them to stand.
The Doberman needed no persuasion.
He zipped out to the porch,
way ahead of the crowd as always,
and seized the stairs all at once
the way dawn seizes the earth.
His descent was so graceful
that his lithe form
might have been carried
on the wings of the wind.
After the mastiffs finally plodded
their oxen-like bodies,
480 pounds worth between the two,
way, way down to the yard,
they did their business
with amazing speed and
then flopped to the ground
with a determined grunt,
as is also their like.
By all appearances,
they had their selective hearing
turned up on high
and intended to dig in
for a long, long spell.
The Doberman dashed around them,
zigzagged back and forth between them,
circled them,
and cut paths between them,
back and forth,
again and again,
at speeds exceeding 120 MPH.
Occasionally, he'd leap over them
with all the agility and elegance
of a thoroughbred race horse.
Now and then, he'd give
a few playful barks,
or nip their paws or ears,
in an attempt to stir them into action
but the mastiffs
could not be teased into play,
much less any kind of movement,
and merely eyed him with derision
in the unique way that mastiffs do,
and seemed to scoff, from time to time,
at his foolish expenditure of energy,
also in the unique way that mastiffs do.
The Doberman cared not a whit.
Moving at breakneck pace,
he continued his jaunt,
finding great joy
in his own company,
happy to do his own thing.
© 2009 Bobette Bryan
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