I want to sleep
The sleep of dogs
So still and full of peace,
Laid belly flat on the cool ceramic floor,
Or stretched out limbs spread wide,
Like a lumberjack in days of yore,
Beat still into deep sleep
From the day's steep labor.
He sleeps, the dog I gently stroke.
Then, I stretch his back leg straight
Feeling the firm muscularity,
In tendons, to toes, and on to the tail.
Still he sleeps,
The shiny fair hair, so soft and silky.
Perchance he dreams . . .
as whiskers whisk,
a muted muffled bark escapes
Teeth baring, breath jarring.
Hindquarters quake in unison with his flight,
With forefeet in a slight, but right, flick.
What does he chase in his dream?
Are his dreams much different than mine?
The tail, his tale, is now silent.
As all those who sleep without communication.
Stories never to be told in words,
But understood somehow, by those domesticated.
I wish I could sleep the sleep of dogs,
Closing my eyes into the world eagerly awaiting.
I wish I could swipe the chalkboard of my brain
Into a complete drain in less than two minutes.
My dog doesn't toss and turn himself to sleep,
Though three large circular treads about
Make for the comfort of a dog's slumber shed.
I enjoy sleep, at least as much as my dog.
Somehow, it feels even better sleeping
In the den, laying close to him,
Napping on the sofa,
Canine blanket upon my leg and feet.
My canine companion is a cultural cliché
Who can ease me when I'm beat,
And we both are off our feet.