EIGHT WAYS OF LOOKING AT LONELY
A wisp of white against an eternal blue.
A tiny town
Along twenty occupied bar stools,
the only moving thing
was the hum of the Blues.
Maybe cuts on the wrists,
or a cup of cyanide,
or a fork in the toaster,
or fumes filling the car,
or pills in the hand,
or a bullet in the chamber,
or a rope dangling from a ceiling,
but definitely the dive from a bridge to the river.
An empty set of parentheses.
Always an invitation, never an RSVP.
In a mirror while everyone else is sleeping.
As seed of the unplucked peach.