The Hole in the Middle

And all around

these people come and go,

dim shadows in

unending shadow play.

Peeled nerves

of teenage hurt

each fucking day.

Sad spinsters

finger out

a dull rondeau.

This waterfall of words

won’t rinse away

the stink of mediocrity

I fear;

lives lived in a

perpetual first gear,

searching for the next

heartfelt cliché.

Your mental health’s not great.

You married wrong.

You’re facing midlife

with a rictus grin.

You’re writing for an

audience of one.

What happens when

that audience has gone?

Will I understand

and take it on the chin?

Does it matter much

when all is said

and done?