Who speaks of what lives in the dark?
The senses always fail.
At five o’clock, when the clouds sharpen,
Is there hope?
The senses always fail.
At five o’clock, when the clouds sharpen,
Is there hope?
Today it’s a phone call that goes on and on
About cancer metastasized into bone
And giving up on a daughter
He’d disowned too many times already to total.
Every day is like this, with the same irresolution,
Though my wet sheets are piled this afternoon
Atop my dusty car! Still, I must let it go as usual
Without mouthing verdict or complaint …
Yet, as always, the possibility of a Zeus-like
Thunderbolt of consequence rears its theory.
But I can’t even locate my favorite mug and can't
Predict what next demand violence will accompany.
Another mountain of clothes will be delivered to our door
So we can trip to the floor at 3 o’clock in the morning.
More things will be stolen, despite the locks, and I will endure
More taunting how unhinged I get at mere borrowing.
All this I know. As that there are daughters folding clothes,
Preparing meals, hearing the complaints of aching age,
But here, an eggshell cracking brings
The mirrors down to the floors,
And if one chooses to criticize this latest ruination
As a less-than-innocent, more-than-natural expression,
However one felt will no longer seem the same anger
In the face of a brand-new pain.
