and the ghosts have begun
to gather in the trees,
their howls to echo in the wind --
Oh, no, it's just the dog,
whose tennis ball has rolled
beneath the radiator once again,
and so he crouches --
black nose pressed against the heat
that so intensifies the scent
of that one lost ball --
and whines, and wails
despite the fact
that six other tennis balls
lie scattered around the room;
a perfect parable whose passion
noisily outweighs the widow's mite
and the one lost sheep...
(Having just seen Billy Collins read, I had to throw a dog into this poem...)
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