adrift in the insolence

of the ever-inching hours

when I lack the energy to love

all that I do not lack

bundled like a baby

with my bottle

nursing stolen sorrows

scowling on the balcony

where the poor boys below

will come to giggle, dance, and throw

stones, sometimes, at my silhouette

I know not the capsuled tragedies

in the rows of glowing windows

of destitute tenement homes

I know only my unbroken bones

I know only my silent phone

I know not the empty stomaches

growling in the ghettos

but I know they growl at me

and I understand

they deserve to be angry

for though I have not taken

my father's scorching torch

its ashes still cover my clothes

taunting those left out in the cold

yet still I swoon and stumble

to all my songs of woe

in melodious despondence

so stubbornly composed

and on the balcony I'll scowl

'til the poor boys throw their stones

and release me

from this postured sorrow

that was never mine to know,

much less call my own