I Should Be Done

I Should be Done

I should be done by now,
over the unrelenting flow by now,
of days on end punctuated by tears in the morning
when no one watches,
and pain the same from first to last.

Will you remember me if someone mentions my name?
I know I shouldn’t ask, but would you meet me at the door
so I won’t stumble to the floor walking in?
I know you’re tired of pitying me,
You think I like this pantheistic game that sees
eyes evaluating every breath not drawn from the well
of a new repertoire of song.

I’m really not dressed to go to lunch,
the cinders from the last fire are still on my hands.
I’m really not ready to try to retrofit
a friendship I invested in with new window panes.

I thought you might be the one and only in
the long flat past halfway between then and there,
the only wayside station for miles upon miles of days.

It matters less than it used to, but it still matters mostly
more than the pep talks I try to use to fall asleep.
Morning brings the reminder of harsh winds whining
my blame for every blizzard on the prairie.

I want the couch again, the hidden language friend
who prescribes zero, reminds little, rewinds nullified…

Never mind, I am merely depressed to the core and
shouldn’t cry anymore over separations, reparations,
mistakes and antiquated relics that couldn’t help but
point me out publicly while trying to enjoy a meal.

I’ve tried the pills, and I slept a little better;
I’ve tried the prayer, over and over, and no echo.

And the God who I know loves me more;

I am weary as war.