A PALL

has descended
over me; I struggle
to do anything
except move my fingers
over the keys and let
whatever flies & lands
in my head create the lie
of exercise & movement.

Depression is gifted
for the young;
melancholy
for the lovelorn.
I am neither.
I am like my words:
lugubrious labored
leaden lonely.
A shroud covers
my TV, anchors of folly
slither over its face.

I'm waiting for the earth
to turn over
us and the intrepid worm
become our jailers.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017