by Jackson Henningsgard aged 15

The poodle down the street is my bae.
I try to see her every day.
I rise from bed and bark at the door.
My mom says, “C’mon it’s only four.”
I run outside to find that it’s dark.
I turn back to the door and I just start to bark.
I have a stripe down the middle, makes me look like a skunk.
I kind of wish I had a little doggy bed bunk.
I am and old pupper, I cannot hear.
I still like to scare those pesky, big deer.
I am 16, my whiskers are gray.
I still enjoy cuddles, every day.
I love small strokes, on my nice curly tail.
My price tag read, “50 bucks. On sale!”
I fall asleep, in my small red bed.
I wake to a flatted, side of my head.
I have a blue shock collar, it is a new thing.
If I wander too far, I get a small zing.
I do not have thumbs, it is kind of sad.
But I never do hear “Bad Dog, Bad.”
I do remember Jackson, as just a small tot.
My humans are everything, I love them a lot.

The Poetry Zone

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