Weltschmerz

I

Saturday, late November sunshine
wilts frost from grass and roofs,
a robin hops from seed to seed,
dirty, rough, a stupid stayer,
looks ragged as my thought.
I’ll sell this day on easy terms,
promissory note? Futures contract?
Trade? But one condition for you
if you buy it, let me deliver the day
and perhaps your word, touch, gesture,
laugh will warm a man so wintry
in his mood his green shoots
might not make it until spring.
 

II

A misery bleeds inside me
today and will not let me be,
it is a day like any day,
subtract or add a small degree.
There must be something ails a man
to plague himself on this bright day
when what he wants is what he has
but what he has he will not say.