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.
 
Rosie Miles

If you have any thoughts on this poem,  Rosie Miles would be pleased to hear them.