This Is Supposed To Be Sad

This is supposed to be sad,
supposed to dissipate like dewdrops past sun-up
but to find what you're supposed to find
and do what you need to no longer allures,
so this poem will hang
like bullets of rain without gravitas.
Your neighbor who delivers her kids
at eight each morning might like this feeling,
this bleaching of all emotion,
and pinstriped businessmen may even welcome
the grey skies that provide a ruse
for dress-up games and justifications
and a return to nine-to-fivery.

But this limbo is torture
it makes you want to
start again
start again
start again
to cry out in the night
like a moon-waxed wolf,
to howl a reaction to a slow first kiss.
It's a howl that will not let
DNA slip into mediocrity
and while the mother
stares dumbly at the radio's digital display,
while casual Friday becomes a victory
and the young go unattended to,
while lips untouch and are left nothing
there's no telling
which fate
is ultimately sadder.