Like an obelisk of granite, melancholy just sits inside.
I avoid looking at it. I avoid exposing it to others.
I console myself with treats. I distract myself
with infinite irrelevancies.
I run into forests of imagination, anything
to postpone confronting this banal suffering.
But then a vow gradually arises from my gut:
as I am able, I will not hide from this dull pain.
I will take a spoon and consume my given portion,
bite by bittersweet bite. In silence,
the taste of it sinks down into me,
its truth quietly rousing me from my slumber—
my waking, walking sleep.
To dig down into a moment like this,
like a man, or to live and die like a dog—
the choice is presented, over and over.
And I rejoice in its clear, bracing bouquet,
door that it is to a life worth living.