A Dog Called Depression
For once I take him for a walk.
He lolls behind me
all the way to the park.
“It’s good for you,” I say.
He looks at me like I’m a mutt.
He’s not black – more of a gristly grey.
I throw the ball towards the lake
and shout “Fetch!”
Fetch it yourself his eyes say back.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Rosie Miles would be
pleased to hear them.