OVER THE WAY.

A WOMAN SUNK IN DEPRESSION

The f**k I care, you mutter,
sitting there in the faded yellow
armchair, although you do,
you won't admit it, at least not

to yourself. You sit ungainly
(Mother would have said so),
the faded purple dress riding
up your thighs, head on the

back of the chair, sitting there.
The f**k I give a damn, you say,
but deep down you know you do:
care what the folks next door

may say as you walk to the garbage
bin to cast out the stuff, or the
people in the store where you
shop, your dark hair in a mess,

no lipstick, no make up, just plain
old you, and some days you wear
no underwear, just hope you don't
have an accident while out, or fall

down. The f**k I care, you mutter,
and Mother with her high ideals,
and how she seemed disappointed
in you, how you turned out. You

gaze out the window over the way,
how the sun is out, and clouds drift
by, and that fink next door, how he
watches you as you walk to the bin

with garbage, how he sucks you in
with his bulging eyes. The f**k I
care if he does or not. O to be in
New York now. O to be on some

lonely shore, you say, seeing the
fink next door out over the way.