Sorrow
Remember all that people say about sorry
is not always true, sorrow is a bed of strangers
it will not look at you, if it doesn't want- sorrow
it will look at you in hideouts
where people aren't looking-
but they know sorrows, yours or mine
they know faces, sad or devilish
they know sorrow, you won't
even if you hide it in a prurient heart
even if you smile like flashy clothes
wearing down your torn sorrows,
like clothes about to give way into litters
pots and cans, vans, mortgaged estates
like shabby, unwashed clothes damned
to be given to poor, poor homes
even if it stays, it will follow like ghost
of opprobrium. But you won't know that
if you ever side step, its calumny will
not cease, nor its dreams, nor its querulousness
like the vamp lighting a cigarette, cackling
and thinking that she is happy.
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