Ted and My Creative Juices

I was heading to my desk
To write the definitive American novel
Which, after fifty-one years,
Was imminant
When I realized that the trashman
Had left the gate open
And the dog was gone.

Fearing I would miss his snuffling return
At the front door, he snorting victoriously
After a stolen run, therefore giving tacit leave
To further escapades
I brewed an instant cup and settled
Book in hand to wait. The rain, I thought,
Would cut his outing short.
At intervals I whistled.

Usually he stays within the block pursuing girls,
Although last time he proved me wrong
And cavorted with his cohorts
Near busy Edgar Road.
I cannot handle death this week.
I grab my keys and rain hat
And drive the car around the block.
No sign. I brew another cup and notice
I've lost the splendid opening line of the
Great American Novel.

Time passes. I hear children on the street
Coming from school and know the sound will lure him.
Sure enough.
He stands, paw poised, ears smart,
Smiling, I think, at his good life,
Halfway down the block.
I call.

He galumphs innocently toward home,
Unaware we are at odds, across the puddled yard,
Mud-wet feet across the rug, every vibrant inch of him
Enthusiastically shaking rain.

My writing time is gone
But that delinquent, unrepentent, hedonistic, anti-literary dog
Is safe.