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