All been down this road. . .
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Lonesome

 

is the click of the lock

after the door closes

in your face

without a glance

then the chain slides home

 

is the sliver of light at the bottom

being swallowed by silence

worse, laughter spilling

whispers all night

 

Lonesome

is the way dark tortures dusk

before moving in for the kill

raising gooseflesh

follows you as you work

not to see and feel shadows

stalk as your feet grope a walk

that crumples  to dirt and rock

that is breaking up

not that you remember

you remember, all right

once silk sheets spread

warmed just for you

out of love

 

Lonesome

is no coat and your shoes have holes

and you think of hanging

a black wreath on your door

if you still have one

to stave off collectors

 

Lonesome

is new wheels and no one to pick up

new do and no one to laugh

new outfit, new club

and no one is looking

especially you

 

Lonesome

is the long, low, moan

of a train going nowhere

and taking forever

backed dimly by a moon

sometimes fat, sometimes thin

as a pail handle

or none at all

 

is a jam-packed station

is a waiting room

is a jetway, is the home

of an acquaintance

more like a stranger

is the wail of an ambulance

fire truck

newborn

is a backyard barbeque

is the same tired joke

in the same loud voices

at the same old bar

or church basement

 

is a shriek from a child

being torn by bullets

just happened to stray

 

Lonesome

is being the only one on the bus

besides a yawning driver

at the end of the line

at two in the morning

houses are falling

tombstones surrounded

by weeds and all

the lights are off

 

Lonesome

is.