Depression Poem #3

Down

Again we meet, Medusa
and stones cannot cry.
Yes, I remember that face—
the unshaven pastures of my cheeks
bloated by hangover,
my eyes purple wells—
so I drink too much.
Wouldn't you?

Awkward giraffe,
I lack speech to say
"These leaves have lost their taste."
Music affects only irritation,
touch frightens and food sickens.
My psychiatrist says,
"You suffer from anhedonia."

Looking down a well
water and darkness do not soothe.
It's hard to explain
because the gray muzzle in me
moans for lack of howling
at the sickly moon beneath the smog line.
How dead that moon appears--
like my own pock marks in a mirror.