FATIGUE

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 for my wife.

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, many things     clear.  

Always, one thing        shrouded. 

   Real time bums out people. 

Lots of off base explanations, 

tried out first in a sand box.  

A person who doesn't like herself.  

Another blames it on meteor showers. 

You get one penalty shot.

Miss, maybe shocked. 

Please 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 was 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 as nurses.  

A depressed person always has a suitcase handy, 

packed for every occasion. 

Sartre's "No Exit," for instance

 

The last café you need requires your portrait

The painted absinthe drinker 

recalling the signature EXIT sign             a gift

from Simone de Beauvoir.

Her EXIT could go up on most anyone's wall, 

where it stays out of sight and is 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.