When the soft chill of an isolated evening arrives,
I get to thinking
longing for something I can't quite put my finger on.
Thoughts weave around my wretched spirit
in tangled webs of directionless reflection.
Unsure of where to dwell,
from room to room, dogged by soft, yet agitated noise,
troubled by something I can't quite put my finger on.
My mother sits and sips her wine,
half-asleep, half-absorbed in the yelping, droning television,
half-lost in her day of drudgery,
half-finished with her noisy, sloppy food.
I want to ask if I can help, if there's anything I can do,
but only a sigh escapes my gently parted lips.
searching for something I can't quite put my finger on.
My father sits in his cold, crowded office,
converting and calculating his life into cold, silent figures
day after day, still coming up short, as he watches the clock tell its trite tragedy,
and we three fools lose something we can't quite put our finger on.