Deep

in tobacco tar night, and
we’re singing the usual:

“ I  C A N ’ T  G E T  N O ! ”

But your voice
shakes, buckles,

your eyes blaze
with disintegration.

What’s going on?
What’s up?

Why so hasty
to put away the phone?

I try to probe (gentle, now!):
“Is anything…. Ah…”

Tears seep like oil
from a shoddy car.

“It’s just…”
you begin,

“Are we doomed, not blessed,
to be free?

And Ian’s breaking up with me.”

“Oh! There, there,” I say
(a little feebly)

“It’s okay,”
you say,

“even if freedom’s a shackle,
nothing’s to say

we can’t do our best,

and anyway,
he was kind of a ****.”