Writing, because talk is cheap
Dear Reader, you are the reason I write.
“It’s ten o’clock and all is well,”You crow, as if the gates of hellWeren’t creaking open, sulfur fumesEngulfing all our living rooms.
I know you’ll understand,you said, sotto voce,an aside from your roleas grieving spouse,When I say life will be easierwithout him.
The riddle of the darkest nightIs who will rise to see the light.For surely there will be a dawn.But who or what will then be gone?