My dog sleeps like a beach towel drying in the sun
after a vibrant afternoon throwing his tennis ball
into the lake, scaring fish and snapping gnats.
When he’s had his fill of fecund water, he collapses
onto the sand, panting, tongue drooped. I cajole
him home, where I wash the souvenir smells from his fur.
It’s the best way to get some quiet time to work
until I hear the distinctive music of his tags shaking
and he yawns into my office where I proclaim,
“Behold! Bobo Redivivus!”
He returns my wag,
ready for dinner.
(For this week’s Living Poetry Prompt: Redivivus.)