Devon Balwit


We are asked to celebrate, even purchase,
the ball machine, our dogs taught to drop

it in and wait while we read, unmolested,
but there is something sad in the dog’s

excitement at a hole not a hand, a cutting
of a bond, like a young child set before

a screen, our lives easier but not richer,
more time to fill, but not be blessed thereby.

Devon Balwit has subjected herself to her yellow lab. He graciously lets her write poetry when he pleases.