That dog

That dog lays on the couch
legs every which way
completely open to the universe
accepting herself as a creature on a blue gingham covered stick of furniture.
She doesn't wish the cushions were stuffed with feathers
she doesn't worry the curtains
which are trapped behind it
and don't hang straight as a consequence.
She just sprawls on the end
spreading herself as thinly as possible
on the pillow and the seat
cocking an ear when my pen scritches across the paper
slashing in the lines for a checkerboard pattern.