Despair

You grope for the switch to turn the lights off.

Lighting a match, you pull the shades lower.

It’s nearly impossible to light up a clove,

A constant draft reaches you from the corner.

As you ash your cigarette into a plastic cup,

You reflect on the past, doleful and moody,

And all that’s left from the day is a ticket stub

From the theater you left half-way into the movie.