I Even Have His Picture

I have kept the picture for years.
I have no idea where I took it
or even what it is.

Art perhaps? Maybe.
One of my favorite artists
has such a style, but she assures me,
it is not hers.

More likely a mistake,
a flick of the finger
with the camera pointed to
who knows what. Certainly
I do not know.

But it has haunted me, this picture,
for years. Too accurate
of moods and feelings
I never quite rid myself of
despite decades of orange happy pills
and the best tools a therapist can offer.

The blues. Unreasonable sadness.
Damned tenacious. A daily visitor determined
to stop me in my track. Some days now
it wimps out. Others, it roars like a lion,
meaning to cow me into a blue surrender.

It’s a game we play, depression and I.
Every morning.
In this corner, the blues, without lyrics,
without form. Pervasive. Persistent.

It’s a game we play,
and I have become the better at it.
His tricks are spent. I know them all.
Depression, I have learned, is persistent,
but not very smart. Not very creative.
Always the same lies.

Whereas I can sing. Even the blues sometimes.
I can laugh. Shout “It’s showtime!”
Dance, with an old man’s wiggle.
Paint badly. Pet cats, Read scripture.
Feed myself some sausage and pretend
I deserve it.

Mock him. Yes, mock him. Trash talk,
usually in verse. Not that I think it will make a difference.
He shows up, regular as clockwork,
ready to keep me in bed, cowed,
even when we both know, he cannot anymore.
I even have his picture.

About this poem

Another morning in the life. Another bout of trash talking. Welcome to my mornings. (WIggle, wiggle)

Tom