Snoopy Come Home
I never had a dog, but I lost my dog.
He was nowhere to be found.
I walked through the house in a fog,
not a sight, not a sound.
But I really wanted one.
Mommy won’t give me a puppy.
The weight of my want is a ton.
I even asked Daddy for a Guppy.
My eyes and heart sank,
solemn sadness, drifted through me.
I sprinted, opened the door with a yank
searched the yard, greenbelt, a tall tree.
Oh Please, oh please, oh please,
I’ll take a gerbil, guinea pig, or a slug.
I prey, don’t let him be in a tree.
Or leave me with a bug in a jug.
I hoped he’d come home, called his name,
hidden in a bush, an old wooden dog
on wheels, weird, but not the same.
Yet he had a name, on his collar, next to a log.
So what do I do, he’s not real?
Or is he? He seeks a home.
And wants me, is it unreal?
Puppy no longer has to roam.
His name Snoopy, reminding me of a garden gnome,
so I shifted, shrugged and called, “Snoopy, come home.”
My new dog is wooden, on wheels, archaic, old.
Snoopy is my dog, all mine and gold.