For such a big creature, my dog loves to go small,
loading himself gingerly into the tightest of spaces,
a sleek, furred missile. Underfoot, he’ll shimmy and haul
himself over the dusty carpet. The cats' blank faces
ignored as he locks into place, slips a sigh or sough
at the living room's stale entropy. Slowly, a hum,
barely there, encircles his barrel form. Soon enough,
he’s asleep, and I push aside the cold coffee, thumb
through the dense pile of work just waiting to be read
as the room’s potential energy builds right where I sit.
He flexes a black paw, shifts, unaware of how wed
my own escape missions are with his. In my schemes, it
is always the same: find a flaw in gravity's plan,
grab his collar, and we blow this popsicle stand.