There is no in between:
You are a misanthrope,
Pleased by life’s aesthetic dream,
Or, you put your hope
In vehicles, lots of talk, a favorite team.
Who I am, I have no doubt.
Yesterday evening, as I walked about,
I felt paradise in the misty, quiet, warm, autumnal air,
Loved the solemn way the small, red and yellow leaves blew around,
And cursed people, laughed at them, and didn’t care
If perhaps they heard me; cursed some creep’s motorcycle sound
That broke feverishly loud against the night,
As people in bad taste outfits walked around,
Poorly shaped, chattering, ugly, oblivious to my plight:
Why can’t I find a sensitive soul like me?
A deep, beautiful soul to love? Without fanfare? With a song, or tea?
Ah! The million things we have to do to make things right!
Breath for the sick, poems of love, sleep that continues in the long, long night.