Dinnertime Blues: depression
My father has come to dinner;
He does not knock.
He is not welcome.
He is dead.
Yet he insists on joining me
every evening meal.
Though I cannot see him;
his ominous presence
demands subservience.
I must be silent.
I dare not move.
It is difficult to breathe.
I am not asleep;
this is no nightmare.
It is the way of things
in waking life.
I must endure this until
he tires of terror games;
and leaves when certain
I am a broken man.
