It's all right, I suppose,
unless you are under the attack
of the melancholy demon.
That strange effortful
repositioning of yourself
in the quiet, in a chair.
Laundry, house chores:
monsters that seem to stare
at you through the mist of
a dark haze that we call
a night at day.
Hours, the telephone --
unless misinformed --
rings for you, if it ever does.
This night at day, yours to decide
among drinks, or among books,
or just sitting there in silence.
The one who sits a second place
at the table anyway.
The one convinced that the monologue
today in the car was a conversation
with the past.
The tears and sobs and moans.
The meek, they say, inherit the earth.
Damn the earth! You simply want your day back.
That light that breaks this night.
Alone, alone.
Nobody can make it through this night alone.
unless you are under the attack
of the melancholy demon.
That strange effortful
repositioning of yourself
in the quiet, in a chair.
Laundry, house chores:
monsters that seem to stare
at you through the mist of
a dark haze that we call
a night at day.
Hours, the telephone --
unless misinformed --
rings for you, if it ever does.
This night at day, yours to decide
among drinks, or among books,
or just sitting there in silence.
The one who sits a second place
at the table anyway.
The one convinced that the monologue
today in the car was a conversation
with the past.
The tears and sobs and moans.
The meek, they say, inherit the earth.
Damn the earth! You simply want your day back.
That light that breaks this night.
Alone, alone.
Nobody can make it through this night alone.