And Crooked, Crooked

By NANCY STABER
CROOKED, crooked runs the dog,
Tongue in rhythm with his jog,
A cynic’s laughter in his eyes
And secret knowledge, age-old, wise.
Thus he runs, his tail curled high
I’m his master, so say I.
And crooked, crooked laughs the dog —
Laughs in rhythm with his jog.