I’m hopelessly drawn to misery,
to long, pulled faces and broody eyes that hide hatred behind their thunder.
It is the deathly pallor that does the trick
the kind accompanied by the migraines
that send birds flying in directions that do not exist.
See that hand that holds the golf club,
mustering strength to shatter the birthday gift
that has no value – sentimental or monetary?
It is that hand that will write it’s own death
when the vase lies on the floor, irreparable
and the club has chipped the wall
with a groove that will be filled
by next tenant.
But the groove will remain in the hearts
of those who cried
to see him go, who sit on white sheets, with long
pulled faces and sorrow hidden behind the thunder in their eyes.
It is this misery that draws me,
the circular pull of borrowed grief and anguish.