After Diderot
Speak of the devil and mark
The changes that occur. It is
The end
Of an era; it’s the last
Of our cash, laid out
Beside the banister, precarious,
Threatening to blow
Right down
The stairs. The bathroom window
Open to the suggestion.
Tempting fate and tempting
Myself to higher callings, I feel
Called to
Repeat the past, repeat
Myself, and all the phrases I grew
Fond of when my life was simpler;
When I forge ahead, making
New connections,
I find they do not fitly meet
The joints of my surroundings.
I got nostalgic for the creeping
Sense of dread; I missed the mask
The devil wore
To mock me, or really anyone
Who summons him unjustly
From his warm, sulfuric bed.
Above all, I find it’s anger
That I miss
The most; the sense of days
Before me finally drawing to a close.