The Perfect Avocado.

The sky has marbled to a thick
grey which you fear may never lift.
It dulls your eyes
hoisting tears
by the bucketful
like water from a saline well
that just will not run dry,
though you raise your palms to the sky
and cry, and cry,
and scream to God almighty,
or any god, of any degree of might,
that could affect the weather
to bring fourth drought
just long enough
for you to find your feet.

Your early nights are sabotaged
by sleepless hours in the lonely
spaces of morning,
punctuated with four AM
“what if’s?” and “why’s?”
which, sadly, go unanswered
like a rotary telephone’s loud
ring through an empty house,
that wafts with the scent of good memories
clouded by insurmountable pain.

You fall down again.
Making it through another week
of robotic transactions,
hellos, have a nice days,
opening doors for strangers
and then standing with a full basket
at the supermarket you feel the mental façade
erected between your projected self,
and the you that rings through empty days,
begin to crumble
as you search with quiet desperation
for the perfect avocado.

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