Turn on the TV,
pour a glass of red wine,
a heavy-sigh cleans the slate for happier days.
Passing silent after silent afternoon
Would have loved, a year ago,
this place to call our own.
Door creaks in time with the passing Q train,
it used to be my favorite.
Now, any amount of travel promises twinging anxiety.
There are ghosts next door,
leering forms in past and present participle
ghosts in the corners of the psyche.
When will these blue days end.
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