A Recurring Mood

Henry Barian

I could blame it on the quality of air
the fast food restaurants
or the imitation jazz piped into elevators by an
             omnipresent dictator
I would cry out
if pain were mine to feel
if I thought it would make sense
I have survived the mass roundup of righteous men

It needs no explanation
being an internal affair
Myself and I
We hold your memory tonight tight against our hearts
to ward off loneliness while cruising the same
              thoroughfare that used to be the way to your door
And the world becomes pregnant with meaning
like a white billboard waiting to be rented


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