Today, I must write a new poem.
You say in the morning, about the black dog
who was my solitude.
You should write about the dog who was your joy, I advise.
And already, I can see it becoming part of the poem.
But today, you're in melancholy.
Hardly laugh at jokes, and just don't see the dog
as one of your characters.
A fool, an oaf fitting only for lullabies, limericks.
And you have to write a serious, thoughtful text.
So me and the dog are left on this side
of inconceivable reality.
While you and the dog are on the other.
And the only place we can all meet is in this poem.