Sore feet. Tired eyes.
I can no longer write a poem. Not because I can’t.
(But because I turned into an Andalusian dog)
I got an 8 hour job in a nice and orderly workplace
It pays well for a poet who works like an obedient dog (that he is)
Digging gold for his master and trained to be grateful in doing so
And I can’t even say no—woof, woof
So I wag my tail and tongue hoping for a good bone
To take home
But I feel sick today and want to be alone
But all I got is a pat in the head and tired paws
Instead, I wrote this poem and it says SOS
This poem will be flushed down the toilet, like all dogs do with their dreams and hopes.