Empty chairs

by Mick Choder

I've seen so many sunsets. Is it worth another one?
To see again the firey reds and yellows of the sun?
To resist the end of the day by making long range plans
and letting scenes inside my mind conflict with sandman's sands?
Must I greet another day with resentment,
hitting snooze bars endlessly in vain hopes for contentment,
wishing for sleep again, my drug, my escape, my non-being
which I avoided hours before, immersed in all my scheming?
Do I really need to work again, to clock in and clock out,
to fear my boss' scrutiny, ill tempers, whims and bouts?
Or worse still my insecurity, as I see all I do
as not quite worth the price I'm paid, of marginal value,
of ineffectiveness, uncreativeness, a body and not much else,
not really helping anything, but increasing someone's wealth.
Do I really have to come home tired again another day,
and worry about my health and all the bills I have to pay?
Do I have to call my friends to find out they're not home,
leave a message on the machine and then call on their cell phone
just to leave another message to please call me back soon
so we can talk for a few minutes and find out nothing's new?
Is it so important that I watch another show,
write another poem, find someplace to go?
Is it useful to live another day to feel again alone,
to try to be with others and rarely feel at home?
To make another friend to whom I'll someday say goodbye
and wonder why when that day comes I just can't seem to cry?
What about the thank you notes I never sent to friends,
colleagues, relatives, associates, the list that never ends?
Could tomorrow really be the day I catch up on my work,
dissolve procrastination, save the world and go berserk?
What is it I haven't done that I would do tomorrow?
What is a life worth living that doesn't end in sorrow?

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