Last night I didn't have the backbone
to turn the flat screen off.
The lump in my throat is wimpy.
Act I - Morning Regret.
I am attacked by regret for things
I can't remember.
She helped me with these states of mind
all that summer.
Then she walked out.
That part I remember.
I can't take much more of my eyes.
They're like the button eyes of a doll,
pre-drilled watch pocket spares,
back-breakingly vague and see-through.
I just finished my latest
first half of a self help book.
It promised I could be free
if I were willing to work the 19 steps.
You know the town is dead
when doll eyes go unnoticed.
Act II - Afternoon Regret.
I miss her so much, I could -
I definitely could -
I forget what.
Definition of "depression:"
That familiar, back-of-the-skull,
chock-full-of-neck-muscles all screaming :
"We've got to get out of here-
It's this town, this century, this jacket"
That summer I needed to believe
that we were jointly crazy.
Now I can't recall what she had.
I told her about my obsession
with that stiff knot of muscle
between the shoulders of a bull.
The choice cut that the picadors go for.
"Maybe you're not as depressed as you think.
Maybe you just have bull shoulders."
Our friends called me "bull shoulders" all summer.
It was so funny!
Actually, they were her friends.
Now I watch CSI,
with such precision eyes,
wasted on all that flatness.
Act III - Family input, and take-away.
"We're such a loving family,
yet you didn't call Mother AGAIN.
So how's the shoulder bull thing going?"
And we said we weren't gonna talk about it."
"Ok, so did you get the book we sent:
Beat Depression in Minutes while you Sleep?"
"She PROMISED she was crazy."
I've worked on this one many many hours, over many years.