A THURSDAY POEM

Sadness bids me be still and listen.

Alas! The air vent loudly hums;

People keep knocking on my door.

Sadness calls to me urgently

“Examine yourself! Ask why

There are tears in your eyes!”

Sadness drums her thin fingers

Leans against the wall, whistles

Or tries to; she hasn’t the art.

Sadness pulls out some paper, writes

“Sorry I missed you. How does lunch

A week from Thursday sound? (You’ll pay.)”