Love That Dog

For

Sandy and Jack Floyd

Mark and Karin Leuthy Benjamin

Louise England

Rob Leuthy

all of whom

love love love their dogs

With special thanks to

Walter Dean Myers

and to all the poets

and Mr.-and-Ms. Stretchberrys

who inspire students every day

I don't want to

because boys

don't write poetry.

Girls do.

I tried.

Can't do it.

Brain's empty.

I don't understand

the poem about

the red wheelbarrow

and the white chickens

and why so much

depends upon

them.

If that is a poem

about the red wheelbarrow

and the white chickens

then any words

can be a poem.

You've just got to

make

short

lines.

Do you promise

not to read it

out loud?

Do you promise

not to put it

on the board?

Okay, here it is,

but I don't like it.

      So much depends

      upon

      a blue car

      splattered with mud

      speeding down the road.

What do you mean—

Why does so much depend

upon

a blue car?

You didn't say before

that I had to tell
why
.

The wheelbarrow guy

didn't tell
why
.

What was up with

the snowy woods poem

you read today?

Why doesn't the person just

keep going if he's got

so many miles to go

before he sleeps?

And why do I have to tell more

about the blue car

splattered with mud

speeding down the road?

I don't want to

write about that blue car

that had miles to go

before it slept,

so many miles to go

in such a hurry.

I am sorry to say

I did not really understand

the tiger tiger burning bright poem

but at least it sounded good

in my ears.

Here is the blue car

with tiger sounds:

      Blue car, blue car, shining bright

      in the darkness of the night:

      who could see you speeding by

      like a comet in the sky?

      I could see you in the night,

      blue car, blue car, shining bright.

      I could see you speeding by

      like a comet in the sky.

Some of the tiger sounds

are still in my ears

like drums

beat-beat-beating.

Yes

you can put

the two blue-car poems

on the board

but only if

you don't put

my name

on them.

They look nice

typed up like that

on blue paper

on a yellow board.

(But still don't tell anyone

who wrote them, okay?)

(And what does
anonymous
mean?

Is it good?)

I don't have any pets

so I can't write about one

and especially

I can't write

a POEM

about one.

Yes, I used to have a pet.

I don't want to write about it.

You're going to ask me

Why not?

Right?

Pretend I still have that pet?

Can't I make up a pet—

a different one?

Like a tiger?

Or a hamster?

A goldfish?

Turtle?

Snail?

Worm?

Flea?

I liked those

small
poems

we read today.

When they're
small

like that

you can read

a whole bunch

in a short time

and then in your head

are all the pictures

of all the
small
things

from all the
small
poems.

I liked how the kitten leaped

in the cat poem

and how you could see

the long head of the horse

in the horse poem

and especially I liked the dog

in the dog poem

because that's just how

my yellow dog

used to lie down,

with his tongue all limp

and his chin

between

his paws

and how he'd sometimes

chomp at a fly

and then sleep

in his loose skin,

just like that poet,

Miss Valerie Worth,

says,

in her
small

dog poem.

Why do you want

to type up what I wrote

about reading

the
small
poems?

It's not a poem.

Is it?

I guess you can

put it on the board

if you want to

but don't put

my name

on it

in case

other people

think

it's not a poem.