In the Evening

In the evening, my griefs come to me
one by one:

One that I would have sworn
had long since been vanquished
(a relic from my past)
creeps in unexpectedly,
slithers across the floor,
and makes itself quite comfortable
in the corner of my room.

Another,
while my eyes are averted elsewhere,
drips indolently off the wall,
puddles on the rug,
and starts to reek,
demanding my attention.

And still another,
familiar as my old pillow,
wriggles in,
nestles in the hollow
between my breasts
where it can feel my heart beat.
It knows it is welcome there,
an ardent, aching friend.