Depression was my family legacy
like an heirloom pocket watch
handed down though it is past all usefulness
and dwells only at the periphery of fashion,
hidden in sock drawers and closeted shoeboxes
to be wound on a whim
and set to spin away the minutes
unknown;
demoted to accessory
and worn on seldom social occasions,
those times we are least like our everyday selves,
hair contorted into unnatural forms,
bodies obscured beneath costly costumes
lest we be shamed by their insufficiencies,
silhouettes coaxed into ideals
by means of constraint and augmentation;
each guest a masterpiece of illusion.
Which one could guess
that unseen behind my breast pocket
this inheritance counts down?

04/11/2005

Posted on 04/11/2005
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