Depression
By Sarah R. Bloom
You sense the beginning
Itch becomes ache
The ache a dull throbbing
Sun too brilliant
For these eyes
Each coffee scoop
A reminder
Every brush stroke
A twinge of the habitual
The plodding creeping toward demise
It is not the question marks,
The perpetual wonder of it all
But these small things
That hurt the most
The agony of the spilled milk
The crushing defeat of the traffic jam
And the torture of putting on
Your shoes for another day
— Always the inevitable shoes.
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