Postcard From a Day That Didn't Try Very Hard
I step out into the butt-end of the day
in search of something
to ease the sadness just a bit.
It is late afternoon
and the neighborhood feels
particularly mean,
another day having broken
its promise.
Through the windows of restaurants
and bars the eyes
turn down and then away,
the laughter forced
and haunted
as the sun gives up,
disappearing down the dirty alley
behind the market
where I stop for
something to drink.
And on the corner
a sad hooker cries
for someone named Sal.
Sal, she cries,
again and again,
but Sal is not around
or he refuses to answer.
Her howl is mournful,
like some abandoned animal
lost in darkness.
I return to my apartment,
pour a drink
and outside the woman still cries
for Sal.
I walk over and close the window,
trapping the sorrow outside
and in.
in search of something
to ease the sadness just a bit.
It is late afternoon
and the neighborhood feels
particularly mean,
another day having broken
its promise.
Through the windows of restaurants
and bars the eyes
turn down and then away,
the laughter forced
and haunted
as the sun gives up,
disappearing down the dirty alley
behind the market
where I stop for
something to drink.
And on the corner
a sad hooker cries
for someone named Sal.
Sal, she cries,
again and again,
but Sal is not around
or he refuses to answer.
Her howl is mournful,
like some abandoned animal
lost in darkness.
I return to my apartment,
pour a drink
and outside the woman still cries
for Sal.
I walk over and close the window,
trapping the sorrow outside
and in.
