TRULY PATHETIC
Neal Bowers
Lately, the weather aches;
the air is short of breath,
and morning stumbles in, stiff-jointed.
Day by day, the sun bores the sky,
until the moon begins
its tiresome disappearing act,
making the oceans yawn.
Even the seasons change
with a throb of weariness—
bud, bloom, leaf, fall.
If it would help,
I would paint my house silver
or sell it or buy
a red convertible.
I would, but who am I
to try to cheer up
the self-indulgent universe.
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