It's not so much the running as the pacing
back and forth before the door,
the scratching of paint, fleas that sting with a humiliating smallness.

And what of dreams?
Running in one's sleep, small whimpers,
tight leashes leading nowhere very far at all.
Circles, circles, three times always
nose to the ground; 
holding still for that absent-minded pat, hopelessly affectionate despite sudden inclinations.
Run to the end of the yard and I may yet
jump the fence.

Elisabeth Lee
Copyright © 1998 Elisabeth Lee