Imagination

Sometimes I want to unleash my imagination's dog in the park.

I should set him loose to chase after the seagulls and raise a cloud of panicked wings. He should be free to cock his leg at trees, signing his name on their rooted rigidity. Let him squat and squeeze his abstract art in the middle of the path - another flag for the rollerblade slalom. Let the sun shine and the breeze whiffle his shaggy ears as he bounds after balls and unselfconsciously joins the children's games. He should be free to frighten protective parents with his excited, drool-spraying yelps and unstable exuberance.

Rolling, wriggling and indulging the senses - what other uses could there be for beds of pea straw and chicken shit? Wasn't that flicking sprinkler designed to turn mouthfuls of cold water into frightened game? I want to let him roam out of sight, beyond hearing, open to the distractions of urban environs.

But I won't. I'm too reserved.