This little dog tucked in beside my lap
And the half-cocked recliner chair’s soft arm
Accompanies me on our amusing trip
To Serendip, lulled by my rhyming’s charm,
And while I keep the beat and seek to chime
My lines according to the sonnet’s scheme,
She softly breathes as if to mark the time
Or shudders in the action of her dream.
A little twitch suggests she’s in pursuit
Of someone swiftly fleeing up ahead—
A backyard squirrel or a lakeside coot—
Or yet some other speedy quadruped.
And thus again, though sleeping, she inspires
The matter that this would-be poem requires.