the dogs are unfed

depression has a heart

buried beneath

pumice streets

of old pompeii

it has lost

all interest

in homeric greek

walled within

the house of the tragic poet

it doesn’t  pretend

to engage in platitudes

it does not want to tell you

how it’s doing

it does not want

to be reminded

of how much it aches

how embarrassed it feels

or infect you

with its tragedy

it has forgotten its father’s birthday

depression can’t elaborate

regarding dreams as

a fool’s currency

lacking the wherewithal to say

i feel as though

i died years ago

the horses are dead

the dogs are unfed

the natives have ceased

their drum beat