Wednesday is Different

Today there are vacancies for sorrow. Yesterday it was sad-

ness. Tomorrow may sting a bee, arrow a pigeon, or ring a

knell. I can’t seem to grasp it: this entity called joy; where

happiness is distraught, distressed, even dismayed. A couch

is stained. Leather is fading. A faucet drips. Nothing speaks

of glee; but deepness, even shallow ponds, where woe

waxes quite eloquent. “Lisa called. She was worried. I told

her you’re your regular self: sitting, brooding, staring, even

getting on my last nerve. Call her when you get a chance.”

But I’m not calling: to answer some question on my state of

being: to endure those moments of silence; which suggests

something is hidden, even wrongness, even pain. So I cook,

but fail to eat. So I clean, but fail to dust. There’s a fly in my

ear: it speaks of cathedrals: archways: even temples in

motion. I flush it out: so to ponder madness, melancholy,

even misery. But something without a nib puzzles me: it’s

not so much a thought, as it is a state of being.