Melancholia

At the time of night that men call 10:30, I sit in a corner bar by myself, Watching two tables--- Clusters of life and sound--- A softball team and their wives/girlfriends/lovers Drinking softly into the evening A child's face, released from mother's side, Floats around the tables, Serene and white in tavern dusk, Asking a quarter from each adult Until finally someone gives him one To make him gone And for the millionth time I look into the mirrored tile behind the bar And see you there beside me You're looking down--- Digging through your purse--- And the wound that never heals Opens just a little more--- A quarter's worth---