Andalusian Dog


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

and heaven knows I’m miserable now.

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

“Good puppy.”

But all I got is a pat in the head and tired paws

“Dig.”

Instead, I wrote this poem and it says SOS

PS

This poem will be flushed down the toilet, like all dogs do with their dreams and hopes.

woof

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