Sometimes the emptiness
is so large it can fill up all the holes
in my backyard. Not too long now
until its happy hour. I drink alone. I can't

afford to go out to the bar. So, I'll  make
a toast to  my helpful friend without
a face, the one who never questions anything,
only gives its full attention. The one who's

always there to greet me the moment
I walk through the door. This depression
makes it harder to function. It's so heavy
I give it its own space on the couch. I even talk

to it. But it mostly  keeps to itself. It sits
with me, more than I can say for anyone
else. And it sees my ugliness. But I'm grateful
I no longer have to pretend. It quells the fear

of the nightmares soon to come. The flames
lick my body as if I were an ice-cream
cone. And then I melt into a pool of empty
dreams. This goes on several times each night -

only to unfold into another lonely day. The
calendar marks the month and number. But
to me it's all the same. The only thing to
change is the weather. And that's much the same

too. In summer it's hot. In winter's it's cold;
et cetera, et cetera. It's either shorts or a sweater.