The Unbearable Solidarity of the Dead by Paul Hellweg

Day four in Paris, hungover,
food coma this time,
no alcohol involved,
just despair, angst,
Big Mac, fries, pizza margarita, and
the excruciating loneliness
that, for me, always accompanies
lack of creativity.
Slowly waking,
espresso and coffee,
reading “The Wasteland,”
hotel restaurant packed,
tourists clustered together
as if afraid of being alone,
morning chatter on autopilot,
no one looking into anyone’s eyes.
I’m comforted to witness
what Eliot knew,
I’m not the only one
death hath slowly undone.

1 comment:

Peter Greene said...

"Food coma" is such a great term.


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