You wandered in, made yourself
at home there
in an artist’s arms, and unaware
of his status or yours
you simply lived
as man’s best friend
un tres bon chien
unwittingly deconstructed on canvas.
I wonder if you saw yourself
in that single, ink-black stroke
a portrait, or an artist’s joke?
If you’d found him earlier in his career
perhaps there would be more to you than
one black line, continuous and thin
must have made you howl
Perhaps that’s why it’s rumored
you developed a taste for canvas and so
became le chien qui a mangé un Picasso?
Just having a little fun with a poetry prompt from TS Poetry, where they are talking dogs this month.