These aren't tears,
Even though they roll down my cheeks
Like drops of rain,
Borne of a blackberry winter
Rain drops of pain,
That almost mend the cracks
And misplaced tears--
On my window--
Rain drops of peace,
To calm the children's fears
The monster lies not beneath,
But within.
But why me, tears?
Why, man distressed.
But who am I to ever ask
Why?
When all I see is years
And years of success
Years that went to hell
For years I could not sell.
Yet here I am like all the rest
No chair and couch
And I still say worse
Even, than the worst.
As I see number three eighty five
Roll down my window,
I think of all the time
I've wasted-- staring
Looking into the hollow
Of questions I'll have to swallow
Or let that number roll
Up. To three eighty six
Or God forbid.
Three eighty seven
Three digits from three ninety
Which rounds up to four hundred
Maybe, one day, I'll learn
To leave that window open--
Or leave my velvet curtains closed.
But until that day closes,
I have a deal left open.
On that day,
Maybe, I'll need to learn
But for today,
I must. Stay. Dry.
O