They Call You Moody (a poem by Ann Townsend)

Such proneness to sadness, such little fits
of life-grinding-to-a-halt:
today three diet cokes can’t erase
the jack-pine limbs that dance maniacally
outside the window. All the world’s
a pathetic fallacy where willows weep
and the two crows striding across the turf
freeze-frame into death’s heads
with every snap of the camera’s
imaginary shutter. Ha ha ha they caw
and carried on the updraft they soar and dip
against the sky’s umbrella. Oh chemicals rich
in the blood, oh minor turbulent despair,
the sky unfolds, rinsed with bluing,
the crocuses snap open on their crazy
hinges. I hear it all, even through glass,
the loosening, the ticks, the groan.


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