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03/21/09 - (1)
Saturday Night
How can it possibly be, once again, Less than a month shy of my sixty-eighth birthday, That I find myself so sorrowfully alone, on a Saturday night — I, a virile, athletically fit, handsome-enough guy, With more than a mediocre intellect and sense of humor, Not to mention a touch of the romantic poet? How, I ask myself, at this late stage of my middle age, Have I arrived at such a solitary impasse That even shadows, dust, and cobwebs avoid me, Fearing I might, in raging desolation, trample them, As I slog through my woe-is-me, Job-like motions, On my way to sleep's solitudinous purlieus? It's a rotten, shitty business, this loneliness, Locating myself, now, disenfranchised, Trying to decide between staying alive and suicide. What is it, about my naiveté, that compromises me? Is it the implacable belief that I have a compassionate heart Capable of seeing people's best, not their evil? Perhaps that's the tragic drawback — My attraction to harridans, harpies, viragos, vixens, Black widows who'd suck the very marrow from my soul. Maybe that's why Saturday night and I are companions. She, at least, hasn't yet abandoned me, For my asking her to embrace me, for all that I'm not.
03/21/09 - (1)
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