An Invitation to be Held
A dog so easily puts his head on the ground. He’s nothing to hold on to, and so he lets himself be held. My head is heavy. Its weight makes me dizzy. So I prop it up, and bolster it with words which are filled with reassurances, and with empty promises I have no business making. I like cold beer, wide open spaces, a hand to hold, eyes to see mine, and a comfortable place to sleep. The dogs tell me not to wait for an invitation from death or whomever, that I can always rest my head, and the ground is a comfy pillow.
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