Truly Pathetic

by Neal Bowers

Lately, the weather aches;

the air is short of breath,

and morning stumbles in, stiff-jointed.

Day by day, the sun bores the sky,

until the moon begins

its some disappearing act,

making the oceans yawn.

Even the seasons change

with a throb of weariness—

bud, bloom, leaf, fall.

If it would help,

I would paint my house silver

or sell it or buy

a red convertible.

I would, but who am I

to try to cheer up

the self-indulgent universe.