Light Depressed

Light Depressed

It's hard to see the squat white
building, lights on inside are
slices of warm yellow
cake, rain, cold, like liquid
soap, like the sugar cane syrup
my grandfather put on his
biscuits, thick, cleaning the
concrete from oil, sticky, red
stuff, and once in I try to last,
I get light depressed in winter,
the weak light is like a dirty,
white softball all day, I burn
the daylight I stored up in the
summer and a few good days
in fall, hoping I do not become
a dead satellite, no power in
the solar panels, in orbit, held
down by gravity, with no light,
like my family's old black
lantern that they used before
they strung up the power lines,
the gray rain falling all day,
if only a big, yellow bulldozer
would push aside all of this,
it feels like one continuous
wash in a white machine in
the laundry, around and
around, I think I need to build
a white chapel like Sidney
Poitier did for the nuns in the
desert with the cactus all
around to distract myself,
find something to do until
sunset, until night, sleep, and
morning, a dryer, put in the
quarters, charge up like a cell
phone, start over, hope I smell
a fresh lemon, see it up in a
wide, blue sky, be positive about it.