“…our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves…”  T.S. Eliot

 

Sometimes I wash my dog’s collar

and leave it in the sun to dry.

He mopes and slumps,

worries, whimpers,

unsettled by this freedom.

Only after I click it back around his neck

will he wag and prance,

identity returned,

comfort restored.

 

I wear work as my collar,

restrictive, confining,

yet comfortable, predictable,

a container protecting me

from days surrendered to creative abandon,

from reckless pursuit of passion,

from the instinct to run into the wilderness

and never look back.