Brood in the Night

Brood in the Night

While I sat one night brooding, perplexed and exuding, deep sighs of dejection and gloom,

I was smitten once more by that beast and that bore that men in despair have called doom,

So my book I neglected for my mind had defected to be buried and sealed in her tomb,

To obtain her affection was my lonely intention, felicity I dared not assume.

I considered and perused all the ruses I had used, and remembered every syllable she had uttered.

With embarrassment I winced, recollecting unveiled hints, “Damn her to hell!” I bitterly muttered.

So I opened up my book, but the characters I mistook for Chinese for I held it upside down.

With a jerk and a thrash, the book was thrown into the trash, and I sat there staring with a frown.

I attempted to ignore, this woman I adore. I bade her a tender adieu.

But apparently in vain, for all else seemed inane. Other diversions my heart did eschew.

So I took to the bottle and applied it at full throttle, and was shortly thereafter a buffoon.

And though often I employed it, I never once enjoyed it, and morning would certainly come too soon.

                   -John Leahy (Summer, 1978)