Friday, January 06, 2006


I got up this morning
Dressed the part for work
But beyond that point
I was a crippled man
With a low depression
Which moved in from the west
To a stationary pattern overhead.
Beyond the rank and file
Masses of Herculean will
That do the work of necessity,
The golden men and women
Which made this country whatever it is,
I sit estranged from the social climate,
Lost between being unable and uncaring
That the only thing that keeps me going
Is the bottle of Prozac with the orange lid
So the rest of the family knows
It belongs to me, or I to it.

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