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Photo by Gilberto Reyes from Pexels

I come to you, upon the cusp out doubt.

A dog shit pile of anxiety.

You give me a pat, reassurance in touch.

And I tuck my tail between my legs, and turn slow circles on my bed.

Beaten and tired, I am the old dog, the dog that knows that things won’t change.

I settle in with a sideways glance.

Resting, but not restful.

Dave Park 2019

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