Monday, October 7, 2019

Good Dog

Many of the people I’m working with lately have a lot of tattoos - a lot of tattoos, all up and down their forearms and sneaking up their necks from under their collars, peeking out from behind shirts or unexpectedly delivering quotes from mediocre poets on an ankle or a bicep.

But the better ones are really something to admire, actual works of art on a canvas of skin, and I occasionally think about adding to my one tattoo on my chest, like today as I was riding home on the train.

But the only thing I would really decorate in that way that would have meaning for me is a long spindly scar running up my right thigh, and when I thought of tattooing that, I cringed in sympathy at the already traumatized flesh having to endure any more suffering at my hand, whether for art or not.

I stood on the train, imagining my body as a large, faithful dog, doing its best to comply with my sometimes irrational demands, and my heart flooded with affection for the loyal, foolish thing.

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