The Garden

so is that, the hobo said.
what is what? altough it rained black tears,
the dog's mind seemed to be agitated.
it is true.
I knew it all along, I was wrong, it was wrong.
everything is wrong.
the hobo said it with some relief;
I had to be wrong, for my thoughts
to be correct.

you don't seem to be consistent.
the dog took a cigarette, lit it up
and gazed trough his half open eyes.
you don't seem to be consistent at all.
the hobo fell down in the sand, and
emptied a bit of jim beam's.
dogs can't get it.
the dog, not getting it, asked
do you get it?

the question seemed simple, but the hobo knew
that it wasn't. the answer
was at the center of his universe, probably even
at the center of everything.
I do, I get nothing.
question and answer started an eternal dance,
as if they knew eachother since an unknown moment.
born out of the other, it would give birth to the other,
on the rhythms of what you want it to be.
and as a whole it exists, no matter what.
it was the most fascinating perpetuum mobile of all.

the hobo got up and took his bourbon.
the sky was bright as always when he went off
and knowing that he didn't know neither
he stepped out of the garden.