I’ve been so down lately
that when I wake
to face the sun again,
I pray for rain
clouds to keep me company
in this sickness.

And what a privileged sickness it is.
People are starving,
others bleed from iron
their bodies don’t need.
A century or two ago,
even an aching stomach
was a reason to fear.

Yet no cure exists for this.
Not the sunrise,
not the long awaited bloom
of Chinese fringe trees,
not the scent of fresh baked bread.

I fear early mornings,
losing my hours,
my eyes, my face.

Some tell me to accept
the possibility of God,
but I’d rather wake
to a beautiful woman by my side.

It’s sad, and not sad.

And suddenly, it’s night again.
She succumbs to slumber.
Maybe I can too.