Melancholy

I do still get that strange thoracic ache

of childhood, which I used to call “homesick”

in order to make sense of the sudden lump in my throat and

the furtive thought YOU’RE NOT ALRIGHT!

At 28, I am still unclear why these pangs plague me,

catching me especially

as I drive through Granite weekday mornings

while I curse the clocks forever ticking forward, forward

when I haven’t yet figured out age 10 — so complicated

a thing to dissect. Still I have no name for this melancholy sense

that elbows against my stomach and lungs

shoving for space inside my very skin.

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