Canine Clock Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

At six-eleven, precisely,
she wakes, first stretches,
then yawns and marches
to the back door.

To do her 'business'
out in the world
of toads and frost.
Ears shaking
new found energy,
high speed into the warmth
and back to feather covers,
on birchwood frame.
Just right for a small child.

Resuming that familiar snore,
until, much later,
when the routine of daylight
takes away the boredom.
When darkness falls
she volunteers
and snoozes soundly
until six-eleven, precisely.
I kid you not.