Nothin' but the idea of chocolate. An elegy.

Oh this coffee is really good,
though come to think of it it tastes
like nothing plus the idea of chocolate,
or an acquaintance of chocolate
speaking fondly of certain times
it and chocolate had spoken of nothing,
or nothing remembering a field
in which it once ate the most wondrous
sandwich of ham and rustic chambered cheese
yet still wished for a piece of chocolate
before the lone walk back through
the corn then the darkening forest
to the disappointing village and its super
creepy bed and breakfast.

With secret despair I returned
to the city. Something seemed to be
waiting for me. Maybe the ghost
I keep choosing, even if it's "nothing
better than a wandering cloud" following me
which of course to me and everyone
sounds incredible.

All I follow is my own desire,
sometimes to feel, sometimes to be
at least a little more than intermittently
at ease with being loved. I am never
at ease. Not with hours I can read or walk
and look at the brightly colored
houses filled with lives, not with night
when I lie on my back and listen,
not with the hallway, definitely
not with facebook, definitely
not with time.

Take this cup full of longing and stay as long
as you want and maybe a little longer.


A personal version of Matthew Zapruder's "The Prelude", written in non-secret despair and longing for the food of the gods.