By the Hair of the Dog

My dog is a licker, and loves the laser pointer.

Cold love. Wet and slimy, ooze between the toes.

Hard-headed pursuit of blazing ephemeral light. And then… POUNCE, with naught to show but feverish mad scramble going nowhere.

Watching. Waiting. Longing. Hoping for it to come my way, on my terms, in the direction I want. Where is it? Now? Now? Sigh. Nothing. Now?

Beyond my grasp, my comprehension. I NEED it. Now? Now? …Sigh.

Tomorrow’s promise grows present hope, as off to bed I go.