Many feel depressed. Our times, our truth,
our pitter-patter.
Rain clouds a storm of greys.
Depression not what you want wet,
messing with the innocuous
(a soldier’s boot kicked at the garden)
Spring buds
If lucky, brought to bloom.
wanting to open.
I’m too tired to talk.
The broken-hearted ask, "How's your day?"
"Amiss” I say, and to the heartbreakers, “I give.”
The bully keeps me up in the air, all his weight
grounding his end of the seesaw.
Tell my doctor your concerns.
I've been culling thoughts,
slighting details.
Infrequently, some things will clear.
Always, one thing stays shrouded.
Real time bums people out.
Lots of off base explanations,
tried out first in a sand box.
One person who doesn't like herself.
Another blames meteor showers.
Neither wants a penalty shot.
Miss, maybe shocked. l
Tell the professionals of medication
I am empty within, where the swelling begins,
just above the groin, and the brain
has no patience re-routing desire.
I took up with an anti-virus,
a consumer of restlessness
who became lethargic. There’s no reason
to get out from under.
The door is locked from the outside,
and guards dress like nurses.
A prepared person always has a suitcase handy,
packed for every occasion.
Sartre's "No Exit," for instance
The last café you need requires your portrait
Painted as the absinthe drinker
recalling the signature sign a gift
from (gift-giving) Simone de Beauvoir.
Her EXIT could go up on most anyone's wall,
out of the way and quickly misconstrued.
Here you are to run, there stop.
Walk to keep busy. Move between the lines.
When nude in traffic.
Avoid mirrors.
Someone was looking for something in my eyes.
A searchlight was strapped to your forehead
and its’ penciled beam swallowed
the dark by mistake.
