Dogs hide inside me somewhere
My bowels, loins, conscience
There is measured breathing along with my heartbeat
Egos depend upon us all, you know and
They are borne of our failures which are thought back on
until they are rubbed raw and unhealing

I go through the daily motions and with a soggy toast
spirit under a less than stellar
(truthfully barely better than scary) exterior

The dogs' old age shows in my walk, my analytical allegory
It shows in my take-offs and my landings

A safe landing is a good one, though, right?
And I've sometimes surprised myself by taking me AND
the dogs within on some reckless, paper-thin adventures;
the hounds, they howl the whole way

Me, I take it easy, knowing finitely what it means to satisfy these
urges and to know what real rest is