With Purpose

She walked into the office and shut the door.  It was smaller than she imagined.  A wrap around desk, facing the door.  Metal filing cabinet beside a large recliner that seemed more appropriate for a living room than an office.  Book shelf.  And the largest aloe plant she had ever seen.  It stood nearly 4 feet tall, with branches that were as wide as the newspaper she collected off her porch every morning.  There was a small rectangular window, that let in just enough morning sun to remove any need for artificial lighting this early in the day, just enough to be a bit dark, and unsettling.

It was quiet.  She could hear the sounds of people working in the other offices and it both comforted her, and made her incredibly afraid in rapid cyclic thoughts that shifted back and forth from running to relief.  It was yearning to have someone take control that brought her here, to this point.  Not even sure exactly what she wanted, or how; but that was in fact THE point.  For her to be taken, however, whenever, wherever, by him.  Him that she barely knew but for a couple of random interactions in public with a host of mutual friends, always brief, always proper, properish anyhow.  They weren't so high class that they were above drinking Coors Light while playing shuffleboard at the Legion.  But this...taboo...this kind of sexual deviance...she wouldn't dare talk about that to her sister, let alone her friends.  But for some reason, she had suspected that about him.  Maybe she could see it in his eyes, because on some level it was as if the glances from him offered her an opportunity to look into herself, and see her own darkness looking back.

Whatever it was, it kept her there.  Standing.  Waiting.  Both looking at each other in silence until finally he rose from his seat after what had felt like 30 minutes, and walked over to her.  She nervously fumbled with her keys in her purse.  Twenty years ago, she would have walked in here and thrown him in that chair and ravaged him.  Her confidence now shredded by years of going through the motions.  Now she was afraid.  Insecure.  Vulnerable.  And she did not like being vulnerable, and the will to stay was broken just then by the young girl inside who lost her nerve, and was crying to run away.  She turned to the door, but as she reached for it he simply said "wait".  And somehow, that was enough.  That one little word, so softly from his mouth, that perfect mouth, put her arms at her sides, her purse sliding off and landing on the floor.  She turned to him, her heart racing, and fell with her back against the door.  He walked to her, took her hand, put her finger to his lips, pulled it down, and kissed her with his hand on her face.  He turned her around, and she pushed against the door and thrust her ass firmly against his groin.  She could feel him, and that made her bite her bottom lip in a grin.  Seeing that, he put his hand to her mouth, and put two fingers in it, squeezing her face with the rest of his hand, and putting the other around her neck, not to hurt her, just to show her that he would dictate how much fun she would have at his expense.  She touched that hand, as if to ask him to stop in a feeble attempt to defy him, but he quickly removed it, and placed it in her crotch instead, pushing her hand in place with purpose.

The truth was that he too was nervous.  She took him back to the boy who she ignored in youth.  He needed to dominate her now, or he would never be able to make love to her later.  It was his was of leveling the playing field.  Of knocking her off that pedestal that the world had put her on then.  And dominate her he did.  First by blindfolding her, then tying her hands behind his back, and finally by slipping his tie off and putting it over her head and through her mouth like a gag with the end behind her so he could pull on it with her long hair.  Then in what felt like one swift motion he forced her face down onto his desk, spread her legs with his feet, ripped off her thong that he had insisted she not wear, and stopped.  He looked at her there, holding her in place with one hand.  Her breathing was so heavy that her body rose up and down like the sea.  Her vagina literally dripped in front of him as her legs shook.  Now she was afraid.  How big was he?  What was he doing to do?  Fuck she never cheated.  Fuck fuck fuck.  Kelly what the fuck did you do?  You gotta leave, how can we leave?  I don't want him to hurt me.  All that erased in one soft, slow, beautiful touch of his hand, removing the blindfold, looking at her, and slowly sliding inside her until he felt his cock touch the very back of her pussy, and heard her sigh acknowledging how incredible it was.  Fucking perfect.

He realized right away this was too much power for her, put her blindfold back in place, lifted her skirt, and shoved his two biggest fingers from his left hand right up her ass, no warning, and no hesitation.  Once there, she was at his mercy, and he used that leverage to pull her back as she tried to move away.  Initially she fought, but quickly she realized the more she did, the more it hurt, and the harder he would pull her back.  The pain, while intense, wasn't horrible.  It was more the shock than anything else.  He used those fingers now to pull her to him, like handlebars on a bicycle, while he fucked her there on the desk, her tits rubbing against the stapler and pens that she had fallen on.  Her face pressed against a lap top.  He whispered to her, be quiet, and she did.  She stopped moving, resisting, he hadn't spoken so she had no clue what to expect.  And then she felt something different, and as he leaned in close to her he dropped something by her face.  It smelled of latex and was wet.  "Count down from five" he told her.  "Starting right now, while I talk, and know that when you get to one, I'll be cumming inside you..." and just as he said that final word, she felt him erupt in her.  He had broken that one rule she had insisted on, did the one thing she told him not to, and in that moment he won.  He had her heart, her mind, her body, his confidence he needed, and she immediately felt sexy again knowing that for once in her life, she was finally fucked like she had always wanted to be.  And rather than feel the anger for him that she had warned him of should he break that rule, all she could think of now was how badly she wanted to make love to him, in ways she had never allowed herself to with anyone else.  

Unlike the rest

I don't know why I went out.  I normally do not.  I have too much to lose there, and too much keeping me at home where we play and read books.  But something about it was different and I felt like I couldn't say no.  That's not true.  I could have.  I almost did, actually.  But I didn't want to.  

And it was a little odd at first, uncomfortable.  Probably growing more so with being thrown together without having heard each other's voices let alone share such a small space.  The wine helped a lot.  By the time our food came, something was different, she was softer, her eyes were like pillows wanting me to rest on.  At one point I said something to her and she paused, touched her heart, and it was like she had wanted someone to say that very thing since she was a little girl.  I can still see the look on her face.  It was like I ripped the air out of her lungs, and was dictating how much of it she could have back.  The remarkable thing is, it was unintended, and that look on her face expressing stolen breath, stole mine from me.  And just like that, she was ready to leave.  I took care of the check and we were gone.

Walking. 

No pressure.  It was comfortable.  She talked to her boss, and had her arm around mine.  I told her the history.  Pointed out blue lit buildings.  I watched the other people while she rambled on about interviews and meetings for Monday.  I was planning my move, and the second she said ended her phone call I spun her to me and kissed her like I planned to.  She was tall, and it was nice not to have to bend over to kiss someone.  That awkwardness from earlier was gone.  She was smiling, telling me about her life, and I was telling her about mine.  It was like we had been together for months.  She rambled on about her gay friends she travelled with, and I went on about my own adventures and the dichotomy that is my life as a redneck backstreet boy.  She said her body hurt, and I offered to rub it for her.  

At her bed I was like a child.  Intimidated.  Her body was amazing.  When I was rubbing it I was like a map maker, wanting to study every contour, every rise and fall, every valley.  I wish I had paid more attention to her bra, and her panties.  I was so struck by her skin that I couldn't focus on anything else.  Touching her was like putting your hands on cooling lava.  I wanted to breathe her in, all of her, and save it for little hints to remind me of it in the future.  I wanted to shove my hand into her chest and massage her heart, being able to feel that it was so cracked and hurting.  When she climbed on top of me I had to ask her time and again to slow down, and for brief periods she would.  Even when I sat her up, she fought back by pushing off the way, insisting on leveraging her will to fuck me over my persistence in requesting she make love to me.  I can still hear her ask that I not cum in her, and remember feeling like I wanted to so badly, and feeling like if I had she wouldn't have minded. 

I freaked out.  I hadn't felt a closeness like that with another woman in a really long time.  I had, in fact, made sure not to, and executed certain parameters to insure it.  Response:  flee.  And so I did.  Only to regret it, deeply, ever since.  And long for nothing more than to be back under that blue-lit building, waiting for her to hang up so I could spin her around, kiss her with all I had, and wait for us to go back to her room where I would stay until breakfast.  She was, you were, different, and unlike all the rest.  And I miss her, as crazy as that sounds.

I miss you.

defined as

I hate to argue

syntax

but meaning is so crucial

isn't it

Deliberate movements

of the mouth

in a private room

clothes thrown

everywhere

or in a darker restaurant

where I can watch you

undressing me with your eyes

watch you swallow hard

and pause

before you tell me 

it's really good

that I can choke you

two thousand dinners like that

I could have in a year 

on tour

one time I wanted dessert

I would walk by you now

like a stranger

you

who's aches I massaged

and who dug her way inside me

just to leave out the back

while the front was still open

and the cold win was blowing through

Anonymous

I think that sometimes I speak too much

and other times not enough

Now, for instance, I feel suffocated

by my own breath

too scared to breathe

or whisper 

I can see you there

across from me

your brain flying 

wondering

curious

Standing beside 

bedside

What the fuck am I doing

You said you liked me

I said a lot of things

all of them broken now

does she fuck every guy who buys her dinner

is she running

am I

is this best

why do I care

what's the point of trying

of looking at her 

of wanting her to write

to give a shit

That body, though.

I know one thing

no other guy will ever kiss you 

by a blue lit building

the way that I did.

Fuck Texas.

And Fuck you too.

I will not eat them

I lost my dog

ya know

somewhere in the vodka

and the carmenere

You probably wouldn't recall

your mind working too fast

he's a writer

he's probably good in bed

am I gonna sleep with him

I wanted to stay

there

in the red sea

you said would be so bad

be unprotected

but I sought shelter

instead

and now I can't go back

You see I had this fear

that I had shared

too much, way too

much

blue buildings

words

History.

No erotica,

Sam I am.

My words are true

and I will not

eat them.

We sat up.

Your hand on the wall.

We sat up.

For my Anna Belle

For that which we have
and have forever
let go of
but never really
held onto

for your lips

for having extended
your ever gentle hand
to massage my cold
broken heart

to heal me
then break me

and for having drawn
from my very breath
the words that would ultimately
force us apart

and for knowing
that in all my mystery
ghostly though I
will now remain

so shall remain
that which drove
the tears of joy

my love.

my most pure
concentrated
unspoiled love

may there come
for us
a day when I
once again

riot
at your soul's door

A dusty ashtray

It's not that I miss you.

I miss my father

and the way that he would 

cringe when he took his first sip

off his cold can of refrigerated Pepsi.

Or the way he was so casually cool

with whatever pothole he would

find himself driving over.

He was a great smoker.

Not like the kind that struggled to imitate 

someone they imagined were cool.

No, he was a natural.  

It was clear to anyone who watched him

that it wasn't about addiction,

he actually enjoyed the whole process

the same way a small child

enjoys a sandbox or a frisbee.

Maybe someday I'll miss smoking,

or the sandbox,

I might even miss you.

Until then I'll miss my father,

and the hope that one day

I'd hear from you again.

looking in

It's a broken window

an unwanted hug

unreturned cry out

that I miss you.

Crying is useless

in usefulness unfounded

by countless hours

of searching for a light.

You can hear me.

I can't hear you.

But I can see you

seeing me

as you saw me.

Would you say

me too.

Survivor, I too

I'm a survivor,

Not in the same sense as my father,

I've no disease that I've beaten.

But I'm a survivor.

I survived gang life in elementary school.

A tall, cocky, womanizing youth that had a 

Crew to steal lunches and kisses.

I survived my parents' divorce.

The endless name calling, chess playing, betrayal,

Jesus Christ we're fucking children, YOU'RE CHILDREN,

You're niece, your nephew, your grandchildren.  

What makes you think we can handle this shit?

It's ironic...that the boy you forced into adulthood

Learns the truth about all of you in the end

And can't let go of the hate inside you planted there.

I survived my mother's second marriage...barely.

The touching

The door opening at night

The unrelenting anger

That I faithfully endured

For you to throw me out

Once I was no longer a weekly check from Dad.

I survived High School.

Smoking pot and drinking like it was my major

Working 40 hrs a week to buy food and clothes

Nearly getting beaten daily for a Mexican deported.

I lettered in three sports

And waited for my chance to run.

I survived that 18 wheeler.
The brush with death would change me forever
And not just physically.
When you hit an object that large
At 60 mph
You can't help but lose a part of you into the abyss.

I survived 6 years in that awful meat grinder.

It's bad enough to pour your heart and soul

Into the lives of those you don't even know

But it's a slow death to do it to those

Who will only tell you you're not good enough

And fabricate reasons to destroy you.

I survived my own divorce.

I learned what it was like to be my father,

To have someone you've trusted

Walk out on you and not look back.

You too, are a heartless fucking bitch.

I survived the doctor visit

I survived hearing the words...hospice...two months.

I survived the uncertainty because, well...he's my father.

I survived the fear, the sleepless nights

I survived the Morphine, the ice chips, the Ativan,

hearing him say "help me" and having to say "I can't".

And the betrayal of my own ghosts

until I became a cold, broken shell of my former self.

But I'm a survivor.

Father Time

My father's kitchen table

was a hand-me-down

from my grandmother,

the paint-chipped surface

would hug your coffee

in the smokey blue haze

when the old man wouldn't-

couldn't.

There was love in that house

though I don't recall

ever feeling like I needed

to hear it then

like I do now,

it was everywhere-

it was in the ice cold pepsi-

the door that wouldn't open

from the seasonal shift-

in the soggy food dish

that was my husky's-

even the ghost of my mother

that haunted my father

until he found peace

through his most unforgiving battle.

I remember stepping over

the buckets upstairs

that would catch the water 

from the leaky roof

and caring more about 

the girl who wasn't calling me

than the slow erosion

of what had been the last place

that I can remember 

calling home.

My father's voice echoes 

within those walls

for me to slow down

not run

through the house.

Time was moving fast enough

for him

all he wanted

was to slow it down

just long enough

to hug me.

arodnap

There's a crashing
sort of sound
when my feet hit the water
and the cold
embraces me-
like the shroud
of studded plate mail
with my family crest
keeping safe this knight's
jousted heart.
I know I'd not make it
from the top
but my mind wanders there
then to being wrapped up
by one last kiss.

I pretend none else can
hear me
see me
and I talk to you.
What is it
you would
say to me
if the door were shut?
If I painted you?

As the distance grows
and the road lengthens
I hope
to find silence
to be peaceful
to forget
to never forget
to be fair enough
and I shall tell you.

Blackberry

Who knew
The blackberry in NY
Could be so bitter

I know

You lurk
In shadow
Reading
Reading
Reading

Find another
Mouth to sour
Since you're mute
for words

Of your own

Perhaps

I often joke that my son's temper is of Eastern European Decent.  Inside I know that to be a fallacy.   Perhaps it has been said that my rage needs attention.    

And perhaps, PERHAPS, there is an element of truth in that.  But it's not as if it is going unnoticed by me, or fed.  Is it healthy for me?  Certainly not.  Does is live and breathe in me normally?  Absolutely.  Is it at a critical point that could become, well, undesirable?

When I was young my favorite TV show/Superhero was The Hulk.  I would play, quietly, until someone would comment about "What a nice boy" then I would turn, growl, flex, and try to show how bad ass I was for a 6 year old.  You're jealous.

Suppose it is possible that it's no accident how the green fella and I came to find one another.  I have certainly become less reactive in the last 5 years.  Do I still worry that I could turn lizard-like without warning, I wouldn't say I was worried.  

It helps to know my limits.  Nominations are coming this month and I intend to resign as the President of the non profit I sit on.  I had a curious lunch date today, where an employee from that organization came to me and asked that I help with the ED who has, reportedly, got a huge need for either an attitude adjustment, or retirement.  The whole time I sat there listening, I just wanted to throw my plate, yell out "Who gives a fuck?!?" All I could think about was my dad, and how bad I wanted to have lunch with him.  To talk about fun things, or life, or anything other than the shit that seems to be swarming around me.  I told her I can't help her (seems to be a common theme for the past 3 weeks, and informed her of that little memory I have), that it's all I can do right now to keep myself together.  I've done my part.  MORE than my part.  I moved them.  I tried to move the board.  I give up.  I'm done.  Not just with that organization, but with mental health completely.  I've really reached my limit, not of what I'm capable of, no no no.  My cape still has a lot of life left in it.  But not in this current climate, location, for these people.  They've had all of me that they're going to get, baring a life-altering miracle.

After we ate we shared some info about my dad's last few days that I hadn't had a chance to tell her about.  It was good to get it out, but she immediately told me a story about when her mom died.  Not her fault, that's what everyone has done.  Erin wouldn't have done that, but I can't talk to Erin anymore.  There's yet another recurring theme.

Think I'll go finish my drink.  Who knows, perhaps I'll actually sleep through the night.  PERHAPS.

A long distance call

In the midst of my drive home from work Friday I had a lapse of reason.  Wanted to call you.  Actually told myself "think I'll call Dad", and started to fumble to my phone to get to my favorites list.  Mikey called me instead, and I realized only after we hung up what I had done.  That I didn't have a plan with Verizon that would allow me to dial you direct.

Hard to believe.

Life seems to be a solitary prison in the days since my Father's died.  Between being surrounded by too many to list, to just a few, or none; feels alone all the same.  Empty.  Feel angrier than ever.  Sometimes.  Feel crushed others.  People ask "What can we do to help?"  Leave me alone, I suppose.  Can't believe my brother is getting married in less than a week.  While I was able to (nearly) harness my emotions long enough to get through my Father's eulogy, I wonder what it is I'm to say now for my brother, how I'm suppose to do it with my head held high, in a way my brother deserves.  I talk to myself.  Especially during the long rides to work that leave me with nothing but time to think.  And think.  And time.  And I talk to you.  Out loud.  Wondering when I'll get chills because I think you've made the long trip to hug me.  

Scot says I have to be my Dad now, his sidekick for projects, but I am not my Dad, and I feel as if I am reminded of that, almost constantly.  I want to ask for help, but what? from who? how?  And would I trust any of them, I doubt it.  

I realize this is not poetry, nor very poetic.  I have hundreds of lines in my mind, feel like I could write for days on end and not get it all out.  Such is my creativity, I suppose; to feel most inspired when most heartbroken, but I don't really feel like writing.  This part of life is the cruelest.  I hate that my son will experience it, that other's don't appreciate their parents like they should--don't spend the time with them that they have, that there are parents that don't love their kids and the kids of others like my Dad did.

My thoughts for now are too frail.  Angry over a slice of pizza with wings, but knowing that I'm not really angry over that, and not giving into the projection my fierce heart is pushing for.  A target.  I've had visions of my coffee cup flying through my television, or of my fist sending my mirror into a thousand glittering shards that would resemble my dreams.  Shattered.  Broken.  Fighting the urge to run away.  Not for good.  But I think I finally understand why Billy ran.  He escaped all the sorrow because he couldn't handle it.  My ego tells me I'm better than that, and I can remain.  Must remain.  "If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs..."  My heart tells me I'm a damn fool, and it screams for me to do as he did, then come back an even stronger version of myself than the one who sits before a laptop avoiding sleep.  

For now I stay.  I drink my coffee.  I wait for the fire inside to burn on the right side, and for my roar to be healthy.  You begged that I not lose my sense of humor.  I'm trying.  Really.  But my chest is heavy.  Really.  And my coffee is getting colder by the second.  A painful reminder of time I can't have back.

Captain, My Captain

Crush the lime
Between my fingers
Every last drop.
It's sour-
All of it-
Leaves me
Rather unpleasant
Like the storm that
First blew in And took my lips
Without permission
Only to leave the same.

Ah, Captain,
My King Of Leon,
Of Nada,
Of wondering If I want you to,
Thanks for making
The bitterness taste
Not so bitter,
For not being a coward,
For your spice.

My Captain.

Survivor*

*This is, to my knowledge, the only poem that my father ever wrote.  I found it, by chance, on the day of his memorial service, and read pieces of it there.  I've posted it here in entirety so that his words will survive with his legacy.

Survivor

I am a survivor.

No, I don’t mean that god-awful reality show,

That insipid blight upon an already empty intellectual wasteland.

I am a survivor.

I survived gym class in elementary school,

A fat, non-athletic kid who couldn’t climb that stupid fucking rope if

A dozen Dobermans had been chasing me. 

I survived my parents’ fights,

The relentless screaming, accusations, and recriminations,

Can’t you see we’re standing here,

Looking, crying, waiting for this to stop,

It’s kind of ironic…that little boy in the rocking chair watching the Three Stooges,

And outside the window his mother is walking away, suitcase in hand, the father pleading her to come back.  You did, but I can’t forget.

I survived junior high.

My body became “athletic” without surrendering to the mentality.

An adolescent hippie that understood the world and desperately

Needed the world to understand me

I survived high school.

I had an epiphany.  There was a middle class,

But it wasn’t us.  There wasn’t going to be any college,

I had an epiphany.  I understood the grayness that enveloped my father

And waited for it to envelope me.

I survived my marriage…barely.

In a life devoid too often of joy,

It gave me three little salvations…and hope.

Because children are that.  You see, you can’t really die

If part of you is left to remember.

And my childhood was not going to be my children’s,

But you can die if it’s ripped away from you.

You heartless fucking bitch…where is the person I knew?

I survived 25 years in that awful factory,

I saw the faces of men, gray and grimy as the machines

They became part of, and I realized that was my face too,

That it was hard to tell where the machine ended and I began.

A monotony of sound, sights, smells, and actions. 

A cold world with a faceless master in a counting house

Awaiting his own Christmas ghosts. 

I survived that doctor visit and all the ensuing ones,

I survived hearing the words…cancer, stage 2….

I survived the uncertainty, because, well…it’s cancer.

I survived the fear, my own and that of my loved ones.

I survived the needles, the pain, the chemicals that would “heal” me,

the way my skin felt ravaged, stretched and  abused.

And the betrayal of my body

until I became a fat non-athletic old man.

But I’m a survivor.

capture

a moment
a photo
an early morning
breath laced with coffee
or an order of toast
only
read a blog
twice
be sleep deprived
sleep in
be the thing you most fear
and then conquer yourself

moments
photos
kisses
swing from blue trees
or green
or yellow
on a string
make a playlist
then give it away
write a blog
or five
be the thing you most admire
and admire yourself

the essence of life
and the grace in death
that we all possess
from the ultimate teachers
who first taught us
to run head first
into the world
and capture the air we breathe
we passionate determination
for we are FREE

the fear
the unknown
the loneliness
in your mind
in mine
beat it with a stick
let it be your punching bag
and your kindness
be the dichotomy
so that you may harness the lightening
bolt from the sky
and be the sole author.

Without tragedy. 

And with it.

not nearly enough

Haven't written in so long

I've been busy

That's what I tell

myself.

Though, 

I've tried.

There's a whisper

of a face

in the dark

whispering to someone

else,

blind to my face

but for when

the storms blow

in.

I hope better of that

from you.

Goodbye MC

Dear Dozer,


I hope that this note finds you well and in good spirits. Please understand, my reason for writing you is only to inform you that by the end of the day today (March, 21, 2012) our very dear little bundle of joy, our sweet and loveable "Mojo Chicken", will have a new home, and likely a new name. I'm well aware of the fact that this news may come of no real consequence or interest to you, but nonetheless I felt it was necessary to share with you the information that our once prized 32 GB iPod would now be in the hands of another. I remember how your eyes shown like a light through the fog when first they gazed upon its' blackness. The possibilities!! The mixes!!! The applications!! Running! Driving! DOZING!!!!!

While you moved on quite some time ago to a new and improved model, I have not. "MC" and I have had a faint, but loving relationship, as it has been hard for me to hear or delete your playlists. This has been no fault of MC's, and I realize now that to continue to keep the mojo locked away like Rapunzel is unfair to such a thing so deserving of the love and compassion it once enjoyed. Know that I have agreed to give MC freely, willingly, and without regret, for I believe the new home to be one of "sound" quality. I had considered altering the contents: to delete "Maine Coast", or "Mellowness", or other playlists too painful to mention. However I realized those iconic, timeless pieces of history are far too priceless to be missed by others who might have otherwise had the opportunity to hear them and have their lives forever changed for the better, as I once believed my own to be when first gazed upon by your eyes like a light in the fog.

But I digress. And as I do the time I have left with that which we both so loved becomes shorter and shorter, and I still have "Galileo", "The little ass birds", and "Moses" to deal with. I'll try but am not hopeful that I will get through Tracy Chapman. BNL and Van are completely out of the question.

Be well, Barb.
J

Fading away

There's nothing that can be

what we are

what we were.

The petals are falling off

the roses beside our stone

and they'll plant no more.

Everywhere I turn

a necropolis of memories

burns even the fire station.

Of course I hate you

how couldn't I,

I unceasingly refrain to heal.

I want to absolve you 

entirely for the anger

weighs more than the longing.

But weak as the thread 

may be that draws me close

the lion's pride is enduring

beyond what hope I have

of your phone call.

You betrayed me

beyond what any other

could fathom to achieve.

And yet...it's the song 

of my name running cross

your lips I cry for.

I want to be done,

to have what was

or could be.

Sadly, 

when typhlotic no more

and struck with the 

corpulent despondency

of which I suffer now,

you'll find me not

still waiting for your train,

but in the proximity of one

I trow truly loves me.