You Old Dog

I wrote you off in my last poem,

but I keep bringing you back.

You buzz around my head and prick my eyes

like a heat-of-summer gnat.

I tried to let you go,

so I gave you one last line,

but my meter won’t work without you,

and the syllables won’t rhyme.

I want to hunt you, you old dog—

I’m hungry, on the prowl—

but it’d be a waste of a chase.

I could never make you howl.

I could teach you tricks, or gift you sticks,

all sorts of shiny stuff,

but there’s no hope in throwing bones—

it will never be enough.