I imagine Melancholy to be a person,
rather like Jude Law.
He's dapper,
handsome,
well-dressed.

He wears something
straight out of 1945,
a trilby hat,
and suspenders.

Sitting on a short-legged wooden stool,
he appears at the corners
of my consciousness.

He always has a lowball glass in his hand,
casually sipping an amber liquid
and smoking unfiltered cigarettes.
He tells me that I cannot
seem to do anything right.

He tells me I am a fraud.
He tells me that everyone I know
already knows this.

Melancholy comes to call,
sits in the same room with me,
smokes cigarettes,
stubbing the butts out on the floor,
drinks my whiskey,
and laughs at me.

A typical Sunday.

*

-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2015