One More Try

The days are warmer than they should be, you know to let the sunlight warm your skin when it deigns to, but the gray swatch brushed across the land devastates you regardless. You sit on a slow F train from queens, a stalled R train from Brooklyn, you wait in the tunnels and platforms of the underworld and feel your last resistance quietly trickle out of you.

I sat at an unknown bar, alone but for a surly owner, and stared at quickly emptying glasses of beer, trying to will answers out of them. No one gives. The mornings grow longer, when rising out of one's bed becomes a mountain to climb.

You know this, too, shall pass.
You've yet to see if you will pass with it.