he bows to the world as if it is his playground –
and it is.

My job is to throw the stick.
His, to make me do my job.

He looks at me with an enduring gaze
that calls for endless love,
as much time as I can spare,
and treats.


If I hit you with these everlasting eyes
for long enough,
you will probably forget I ripped up the carpet
(or that anything else could be wrong)
he seems to say.

And I believe him.

So I stare into his eyes
and make some time to play.


2 thoughts on “Mutterings”

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