We dedicate this single day
to fools, both far and near,
while wishing it was just this day
and not each day, all year.
after Robert Frost, “My November Guest”
My Sorrow, when she’s here with me,
Thinks these dark days will turn out swell.
She knows I love my misery;
That when I gaze around and see
All’s grim, that suits me very well.
In fact, I hate it when there’s sun,
And all is bright, and birds rejoice!
A thought flits, I can get a gun
And act. Then this will all be done.
It comforts me to have that choice.
But I don’t act. Instead, I mope,
And gripe, and grumble, and complain.
It gives me joy to skewer hope.
That is the main way that I cope.
That’s how we both embrace my pain.
She is my partner and my friend.
Enabled, I do as I please.
She whispers: This will never end.
What’s come unraveled cannot mend….
The two of us write poems like these.