Inside me a hundred puppies
are leaping to their feet
in pursuit of the golden prize,
their tiny lopped-off tails
wiggling so hard
it throws them off the track.
Which is better?
The rush of wind in my fur,
the thrill of pursuit,
the taste of yellow?
No,
it’s that moment,
that split second,
when I capture the ball in my mouth
and look back at you;
that smile of complicity:
We both know I will never drop it at your feet.
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