I keep it on a tight leash
It’s inclined to be a pain
Gnawing on invisible fleas
Half the time
Turning in circles on itself
Looking, but not finding
That sweet spot on the rug
If I could kick it I would
Yell at it to “Heel!”
And do my bidding
But one minute it’s chasing fallen leaves
The other, barking at ghosts
Doesn’t it know
That all I want for it
Is to bound with joy
Forget itself
Run off down the road
And discover new horizons.

When I was in a bad mood, as a young child, my grandmother would make a joke out of the little black dog sitting on my shoulder. Drawing attention to the nasty creature that had taken over my personality was a sure way to banish it back to the dog house.