"Ill Lit Blues" by Robert Mezey

Ill Lit Blues

The lights come on so early on these winter afternoons;

The darkness creeps up early, winter afternoons,

And somewhere a piano is picking out a musty tune.

With less than an explanation you have taken your liberty

And arranged without thinking that nobody else but me

Will be sitting here in the dark like a granite effigy.

Well, no use complaining, there are a million people like me,

And everything as usual is exactly what it must be:

Character is fate, they say—I'm sure that you agree.

And they say love is easy as the turning of a page—

Haven't you heard that, honey?—like the turning of a page?

But they mumble something different in the back rooms of old age.

I'm not a first-time loser, I've been down this road before,

And once again I find myself standing outside a door;

But even as I spell it out, I still don't know the score.

Yet the truth is plain as day, love, all you need do is look;

I can see it clear as daylight, saw it in your parting look—

Love is a sudden emptiness like the closing of a book.

Robert Mezey