Like a finely cooked dish with exceptional vino
My Keats gets his wish from a tiny puppicino
With a dive in face-first, the fancy paper cup between his paws
He springs up in a burst, a spitting image of puppy-claus
With a white sticky beard, whipped mustache, white eye brows
It’s just as I feared, I reach to take his cup and he growls
Who knew what obsession that whipped cream would spark
Like French fries in my possession or a long walk in the park
As we drive off onto Sunset, I say a prayer of thanks that I’m his mother
It’s a day my Keats will surely not forget as he scans the car for another
Year:
2017
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