I have a beer and resume mediocrity.

It must be a bad time of the moon,
but I don't realize that till later.
Not when I am on the bus, catatonic,
Seeking oblivion in the dark shadows
Reflected in a grate in the street.

Then I am just thinking that the blankness beckons
Not like a lover, not passion this, but
Like a mother, an unjudging warm bath of accepting
Uncreation more soothing than squalling birth.

For the first time I imagine the cut
Sharp, no pain just slow flowing dark red, almost
Black really, like the shadows under the street grate.

Another scene: the hard swallow, the moments
Before sleep of wondering is this right, will it
Be ok, does it really matter anyway?

It is later, running the bath for my daughter
Who chatters with animation about Polly Pocket,
Her shiny teeth flashing sunshine that blinds me,
That I see the water, think of blood running, think
It must be a bad time of the moon that
Leads me to write depressed suicide poems like a
Dewy-eyed teenager.

I have a beer and resume mediocrity.