stillfugue

The sun is working to burst through Halloween.
A man shuffles his feet, walking anxiously,
but feet not leaving the ground,
walking between errands, perhaps,
he sucks hard and rapidly
on a barely-visible cigarette,
fast, fierce, focused,
as the smoke goes out,
seeking company,

and dirty pirates,
dirty, pirates in sexually-charged
maniacal costumes, so proud, work,
not even a vague distraction,
but worst is all of the red t-shirts,
not for Halloween, but worn
for the monumental event,
for Monday Night Football,
which I confess to planning
on watching while I dole out the cheapest
candy and sneer at all but the youngest
who will ring my door bell,

but now I contemplate,
that man sucking so fiercely
so wildly on that cig, and I think
of all of my sicknesses,
all my addictions,
most the vicious ones, gone,
resting thankfully in that,
chomping, mashing Nicorette
like it’s heroin for my depression,

but the worst one is this sitting,
sitting alone, judging all that I hate,
wondering how it is I could be alive,
and forgetting how fortunate I am,
how full my life is, and tears come,
they roll while I watch the sun
absolutely obliterating Halloween.
I wonder,
how do all these people
get normal,
enjoy their costumes
and evade the hate.