Muted

Barking through a tennis ball,
she’s somehow not so menacing.

I wish her luck in all her quarrels
with postmen, passersby, and squirrels.

I think (like other not-quite-dumb pets’
plugged intentions) muted trumpets

everywhere should be applauded:
like the tycoon under audit;

Herakles, caught in a leg-lock;
City Mouse, trapped in an eclogue—

any plan gang half-agley,
especially when a sphere of play

obtrudes to soften duty’s slog,
or worse, ferocities enfogged

with folly, instinct, ignorance,
or any irritant that rends

the better angels of our nature,
even when it isn’t major.