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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Gone to the Dogs

Mary has advised me
of Dog’s Day Pool Day,
when dogs swim with owners
in the city’s pool,
on the last pool day of summer.
The pool where Jackie swims,
Michael floats, Mark splashes,
mothers while away an hour.
A foaming surf of arms and fur.
Where men and women
beach themselves like whales
with animals who adore
and put up with them.

Before this day,
no dog smell in the water,
no admittance to the muzzle
that kisses us,
frolics on the grass,
chases us through bushes.
Now admitted where there is no admittance.
The last hurrah of summer
in our private lake.
A fusion of oneness
with those we tolerate and love,
a swim with pooches.

Rotund bulldogs,
muscled boxers,
spaniels, half breeds and poodles.
Like the people of our town,
fat, thin, fierce, gentle,
like children let out
to share the place we go.
For one great moment,
relived all year in dreams,
Dog Day Pool Day,
with people.

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