A Good Cry
by Alfred A. Yuson
Not an eye was dry
when I told them my story.
How at 55 I suffered
from longevity.
Only whiskey makes me well.
Yet nights I drink I cry.
Boyhood seems so long ago,
apparently of yore, another planet.
Tired of serial arguments
with this world; wired; flamed.
Gods are gone, loves alone.
No real friends but the kids.
More than half of what
scares me shitless lies beyond.
The photo albums remain
undone, I scratch my head
half the time.
Half the time
I search for a joke. Only
the clock hangs there, very
funny. Its hands move but
imperceptibly. Wish my heart
and mind were at 10:10.
