The telephone carries tinny voices across the continent
As different accents struggle to understand
And make sense of one another.
Meanwhile I sit here in this dank cellar,
Awaiting my evaluation from the gods above.
Every day they traipse down the stairs,
Dressed in the black stuff of funerals,
And deride me for my subterranean lifestyle.
How hypocritical, I always think,
For in reality our gowns and lace match
Like two crows mated within the bushy orange
Of a poplar tree in autumn.
I crawl on hands and knees toward water,
Dreading the moment when the door above will open,
And I will learn just what new guise
The fashion designers have brought to hell this time.
There is no escape in sight
Yet I am comfortable,
Dread having become my pillow and bed,
Where I can spend an eternity in blind contentment
For whatever I'd have seen with those ailing eyes
Would have been devoid of any meaningful color, anyhow.