there’s a dog in me
used to wear collars like medals—
husband, bishopric, millionaire,
project manager, semiconductor engineer,
creator of things that don’t remember me.
wore ’em all
until my neck was raw
and I forgot what the air felt like
without the weight.
now I walk bare-necked.
no collar.
no leash.
and every dog in every cage
watches me from behind the wire
with eyes full of questions
and teeth full of judgment.
“where’s your collar, old man?”
they bark.
“what are you guarding?
if you’re not guarding something,
what’s the point of your life?”
even my own pups
sniff the air around me,
wary of my bare neck,
like my worth was strangled
with the last collar I cut loose.
“you’re supposed to be the father,”
they say,
“the grandfather who begs for our affection,
keeps the lights on,
keeps the lie alive
that you still matter.”
they want the old man
to smile on cue,
to clap for their half-done triumphs,
to bankroll their silence
and thank them for the privilege.
and I play along—
pretend I like the sound of them
after years of being used
like a step stool
they forgot they climbed.
and now?
strangers see a dog
on a porch
with no collar
and call him lost.
but I’m not lost.
I’m found in ways
those cage dogs will never be.
I sleep with the moon,
drink with the wind,
and ride my electric bike through neighborhoods
where they sit in their glass crates,
guarding doorbells
and checking their apps
to see if they still matter.
they read their self-help
like it’s gospel for the gutless,
peeling back onion layers
one tear at a time,
highlighting lines about
“finding yourself”
and
“letting go of the old you,”
as if the old you
didn’t pay the rent,
bury the bodies,
and build the goddamn bridge
they’re now standing on.
but when they see me
collarless
free
they flinch.
because freedom ain’t pretty.
freedom don’t bark on command.
freedom don’t fetch.
freedom don’t get neutered
and wait for belly rubs.
I am the dog
with no collar,
no cage,
and no one to impress.
and that—
that is the whole fucking point.
