stillfugue

While the wind emptied my spirit
in the soulless park, while

many vacant, metal picnic
tables laughed at my loneliness,

tortured my Ill-founded sense
of being, while people, all dressed
in black, walked around the park
edges as if in Olympic parades,

I brushed my sandwich against
the rusty metal of my picnic

table, took a bite from that
edge of the sandwich, not

purposefully, and waited
to die without struggle.