Walking With George Poem by PATRICIA DOBROSIPEARSON

I can hear the echo of your paws clammering against the concrete.
The bell rings but I cannot see any children recess.
Then you chase the squirrel up the tree.
You are definitely a hunting dog.
This time you seem more able to exersise your body.
Not over winded, drooling with exhaustion.
I no longer have to drag you by the leash.
I heard the sound of music playing.
Piano.
Walking the streets in Washington on a clear, temperately perfect day.
Painters working lovingly on an old house.
And jokingly, I said as I passed by a large colonial resembling that in Gone with The Wind,
'They should put a sign out in front that reads....Frankly My Dear, I Don't Give a Damn! '
(I don't think the neighbors would appreciate that.)