10-Close-Up

I gently stroke the reposed dog 

and let the fur tickle me like brushes 

spontaneously popping up to paint the artist. 

The fur is like a fluffy canvas, 

blank enough to suggest creation 

and yet demanding what the creation will be 

in each soft stroke from the board to the hand. 

A small bite. 

I see a flea pass 

my finger, walking with brief triumph 

before traipsing aimlessly,  

increasingly entangled in the hairs. 

And I wonder what I’d do 

if I were a flea, if I were lost 

among those dandelions 

that obscure my sight, 

obstruct my search for drink. 

What if my carpet were a dog’s fur, 

the strands sprouting upwards, 

my house itself growing legs, 

the kennel the dog itself? 

Would the canvas seem that blank then? 

Would tickling lend itself to repose?