My Mother's House
My mother’s house, a big-ol’ three-storied pile,
Faux Tudor mutt, kenneled on a hill
Sloping to the Mississippi's bank.

It sat, obedient, at her command
Until the grandkids chased it around,
Stepped on its tail, and always barked back.

Then it yipped and dashed in constant motion,
One room to another, afraid to miss a moment.

When they left, it slept once more in its cage.