poem

Depression Poem

They’ve come this far.

The car door’s open

To Charlie Fuqua’s guitar.

The cloth is spread.

“You like it rough,” he says.

“It’s not a question.”

The Ink Spots sing,

I’ll get by,

As long as I have you.

He isn’t getting by;

Nobody is.

He doesn’t have her.

Nobody does.

Back then,

She liked Lucky Strikes

Luck seldom struck.

She thought of

 Switching to Pall Malls.

She liked the way

The dice rolled

out of the cup pell mell.

Chance was clean

As a one-word answer.

“No,” she answers.

“I like it smooth.

I like it clean.”

                                                It isn’t always.

It’s sometimes

Oily and mean.

W.Derge 2/25/15