The Zen of Stan

Sometimes when I look at Stanley
sprawled on the sofa magnificently
as relaxed as any dog could reasonably be
arrestingly manifesting his destiny
doggedly, whole-heartedly
well – I’m filled with jealousy

he’s not worried about global warming
governments being reliably appalling
the cost of living soaring
nuclear countries warring
viruses swarming

how many likes you’re scoring

or the struggle you have ignoring
the insta-perfections of the people you’re following
on your phone at breakfast, first thing in the morning

Stanley never loses his grip
but keeps a steady paw on the wheel of his dog-basket ship
and only looks up if he hears you flip
the door to where the dog food’s kept
or he hears you zip
your dog walking jacket
and fill its pockets from the packet
of snacks to feed his tripe stick habit

in other words, his life seems pretty damned easy
free of the stress that can make you existentially queasy
anyway – that’s how the situation seems to me

but then – hold on there! whoa!
maybe dogs hide a good deal more than they show
(although
listening to him snoring pianissimo
I don’t know)

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