This depression spreads more like a slough or a valley of barren dusty bowls of tinny wind chimes and
wind that whistles through a crevice or two in trusting minds that all will be fine if one just keeps on
through just one more day and one more night
Really? Another day of this muddy cloud? Another hour of active, yearning boredom for comfortable satisfaction?
The arid sunset promises another day of static from mortality
that whispers in that bare murmur of voices that grow louder
with every death of a past lover, a beloved relative
The tongue of grief is sharp, lashing out wildly while
soft righteous regret smells like burning natural gas from
an iron stove that used to bake biscuits and boil stock pots
of beans flavored with tasty bacon grease
Hang on just one more day, I say
slog through one more hour
chew just one more kernel of popcorn
that tastes of tears and stereotypes