In cemeteries I have a way
of being content,
and sitting on the grass against a gravestone
finding the melancholy peaceful.
Not feeling so would seem sacrilegious.
Sitting in the shade of the junipers,
I think of the squirrel looking at me
as he holds his partially eaten acorn.
At parties I have a way
of being unhappy,
and in my can of beer is a half-emptiness.
The cluttered noise around me is strangely measured,
like a row of gravestones in a park.
I sip my beer and contemplate
the woman staring across from me,
and smile at her