in the depths of this funk i sit,
and also stand.
with a churn in my stomach,
that is really just worry,
but feels more like meat.

in the depths of this funk i wander,
from place to place in the rain,
with louisa,
talking like scientists,
dissecting the corpse,
of a love that died so suddenly,
ruptured and deflated.
we posit, and conject,
re-consider and forget,
comparing the misdeeds of today,
with the evils of the past,
and the infidelities of the weekend.

in the depths of this funk i hug Her,
as She boards a bus,
more bags than years,
and tell Her that the summer was fun,
and that school will be great,
and that i will write to her,
and that i regret nothing,
and that She has lighted my life,
like a window,
in a room,
already lit,
with too many curtains…
and what i do not say,
what i cannot say,
involves all of the above.

in the depths of this funk i walk,
by myself down the street,
in the heart of The Village,
swinging a yo-yo,
in front,
and back,
attracting the looks,
of the men in the cafes,
fishing,
as it were,
with my white wood,
and string,
for the compliment i need,
for an empty, lusty stare,
for a moments distraction,
i watch the toy fly,
i watch and i focus.

in the depths of this funk i look forward,
a book about existence beside me,
that tells of decision,
of responsibility,
of freedom,
but all i can feel is its dread,
of a clear day waiting to be filled,
of pavement reeking of tar,
of a clean drinking glass,
and What To Do eludes me,
and Where I Am is lost again,
and My Stomach Rumbles,
and perhaps it wants meat,
but it cannot have any.