His perpetual limp rises to the challenge:
he races to the tennis ball,
old, frail, but exploding with energy,
refusing to act his age (fifteen).
He teeters like a weeble,
returns the ball with a few noisy chomps,
every inch coated with slobber.
Rump in the air, tail frantically wagging, he looks up at me,
and cautiously, as though picking up a mouse,
I take the ball lightly to begin the game again.
Weeble watches closely,
never loses sight of the ball.
Age slowly creeps into the game.
The stench of a sewer rises in his breath
His limbs move slower weighed down.
Specks of blood appear on the ball.
Breaths escaping loudly, scarred tongue hanging,
Weeble holds the ball.