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