Or Maybe Not

Rainy day: New York autumn brand of gray:
I pass a downtown restaurant wherein
I've just recalled he once had waited tables –

all his servile politesse and graces beautifully
displayed – one had to factor into everything
his talent as an actor. Despite the damp it is

as if an oil lamp has overturned and lit my desert
kindling heart. California fires leap and dart
across the continent – perverse reflex: remembered

sex – eruptive dry desires are its invitation:
another fickle conflagration blasts – tickled and
provoked, it lasts. One wonders why the psyche

stokes these flames. Perhaps it’s hunger for
a burning point of meaning, leaning though
it does above a hell: shelled exactitudes of

shame and blame. I had a little cold this week:
a friend suggests I might be virally depressed.
I'd like, I think, to give this searing show a rest.

Or maybe not. It might just hit the spot.