The Unhappy Hour

It's especially hard
To feel excited
About Friday night out
When you sit alone
At one's two-drink minimum
Funeral parlor.
The grain's been reaped,
The peas are all plucked,
The field's a waste . . .
All is emptiness.
The forest's been razed,
The stream diverted,
The marsh is dry,
The flocks of southerly-minded birds
Flap overhead, scoffing at
Our landing lights--
No nourishment here!
It might as well be
A decimation;
The result's the same.
Virtuality sucks.
Even if my past attempts
At social mixing
Were dire failures,
The stimulation of simulated
Camaraderie sustained me.
Two drinks are not enough
To brighten up
This superabundant gloom.