Walk, running dog!
Tug more gently,
it is very early.
Stay away from
that tree and walk.
Keep your leash
out from under your leg.
You need not
smell every tree,
and I doubt
if you have the resources
to mark them all.
Stay on my left
and don't pull too hard.
That cat does not
want to play.
And you need not
wake every dog
in the neighborhood.
I hate to walk you,
but as we reach
the home stretch,
the fun begins.
Ugly, skinny and shaking
with fear and excitement,
you don't look too sharp
at rest or walking.
You look like something
put together
by a cartoonist
as a line drawing.
But when we reach
the cul-de-sac
and take off the leash
and shout: Run! You change.
No longer
an awkward cartoon.
Speed of light,
up and back.
Stretched out like
a hanging goat
in a barrio market,
you run with
no feet on the ground.
Silent speed marked only
by the tinny sound
of toenails on pavement.
Turn sharp at the whistle
and slow at each pass.
Run on command.
Run as your genes
tell you to.
Ears back to streamline,
tail as straight
as the highway
one-way arrow
and mouth open
to catch the air,
you do what Whippets do.
Run!