Criss Cross

I am dainty like a saint free of sin. I up the ante on cute, a fruit, caked. I win. No matter how much dirt or grass I dive in, I am clean in seconds after. And my hair weren’t so long or so thick on my toes, so you can vanish it clear with a quick click of the hose.

When I attack a Rothko, I bounce like a bunny. I am a circus clown not so much in that I am funny, but in so much as clowns of the round do not seem to have a skeleton. I do not contain bones or joints so much as I contain elastic bands. I jump and I roll. I never tire on land. I was born with the lack of tiring impulse. I am a true connoisseur of play. No more, no less.

The bark that comes out of me is a rasp, and I criss cross the lawn at the speed of a loon. You cannot tune me. I chase a ball and I will bring it back with a butt that wiggles, and a tail that propels and the force of all the wheels and the axles.

* in the tradition of Uncivilized and Amour Propre

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