You Have No Whiffle Ball (poem)

 

 

 

You Have No Whiffle Ball

 

You have no whiffle ball

You have no chew bone

You have no visionary scent-life

Ringing your ears with color never seen

You have no mind to dream

You have nothing other than your dogness

Where are your toys?

You’ve eaten them, and now complain

That you have none

Dog, lie still and bask in the sun

I saw you eat a piece of gum

Butt your head against the kitchen garbage can

Until it spilled

I saw you eat the paper towel they drained the bacon on

 

I have a milk-ring

I have been on top of the refrigerator

I have napped there in its heat and bathed in dust

This black box, this unscaleable tower

That even Mr. Boots can spring to only from the counter

Portal to the glowing realm

Door that your poor dog-nose

My finely honed and agile claws

have never nudged or pried

I dare leap inside and leap in yet again

To plumb the mystery, to find

What place is this, where chicken, milk, and ham abide

(“Mr. Boots,” they say, “get out of there.”)

Mine, Puppet—it belongs to me

I claimed it (they will be upset)

But also I have a catnip mouse…

 

Well, I knew you’d been with it

Interrupts the dog

They call me Poppet, Silly Sweetie Poppet

You have no cause to swat me

I only tried to play

 

 

 

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You Have No Whiffle Ball

The Cat Sprang Up

Fight Me

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(2014, Stephanie Foster)