Moby Dick included,
I just wail.
No more dreams.
Empty, nada.
No matter how much
dark chocolate, old cheese
and red wine
I consume.
I no longer presume.
No more dreams.
Nothing to look forward to.
Nothing to look back upon.
A place at the table
That's all.
There's still fight in me.
I'm not going anywhere.
It's just that my laundry,
I have no faith it'll dry anymore.
So I sit on the porch and
watch the vultures fly by
and dream of little pink nymphs
that might just get me by.
Day after day
I look for the shore.
I don't have any dreams
any more.