I’ve woken up today
wondering why
I am not a dog, because

if I were a dog
I’d be a good one.
Especially if

I woke up as a dog with 
all my memories
of being human.

Damn, I’d say,
at last a chance 
to bite back or sleep

with a wiggling leg
or enjoy a fine scratch —
and a shortish lifespan

to boot, nothing like
these interminable
days as a man with all the

unnecessary expectations
and frowns from other men.
If I were a dog

I’d be cool with other dogs.
I might be neutered or left
intact — either way

I’d be fine.  I’d figure it out
or more likely would just
be a dog without figuring.

I figure too much as it is.
If I were to wake up a dog
I’d remember that,

and head right back into sleep
with all my legs spread wide
and my tongue out and 

it would be just fine. Sunshine
on my belly, and food in the bowl;
if I were a dog, I’d be just fine.