The Life of a Real Man: Just Another Vainglorious, Shriveled Fig

"A Man In His Life"
by Yehuda Amichai

A man doesn't have time in his life
to have time for everything.
He doesn't have seasons enough to have
a season for every purpose. Ecclesiastes
Was wrong about that.

A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment,
to laugh and cry with the same eyes,
with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,
to make love in war and war in love.
And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,
to arrange and confuse, to eat and to digest
what history
takes years and years to do.

A man doesn't have time.
When he loses he seeks, when he finds
he forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves
he begins to forget.

And his soul is seasoned, his soul
is very professional.
Only his body remains forever
an amateur. It tries and it misses,
gets muddled, doesn't learn a thing,
drunk and blind in its pleasures
and its pains.

He will die as figs die in autumn,
Shriveled and full of himself and sweet,
the leaves growing dry on the ground,
the bare branches pointing to the place
where there's time for everything.


Men never have the time to do all they want to do, or, for that matter, they never have the time to do all they need to do. As Yehuda Amichai observes, men can't possibly devote a full season to all of their endeavors. The rapid, never-ending "turning" of life barely allows days or even hours for many of their most cherished activities.

Maybe Ecclesiastes should more accurately state: "To every thing there is a moment, and a little time to every purpose under the heaven."

Amichai understands that unless men, as foible humans, accept the "ups and downs" of life and express their true reactive emotions as these things happen, they miss the opportunity to realize the most meaningful experiences of their own times.

In reality, most men are not graced with a generous allotment of time to "digest" and retrace their own existence. In short, they are too busy living and dealing with the next new challenge to devote extra time to good reasoning. Many find complimentary mid-life adjustment very difficult; some find it impossible.

And, Amichai contends loss and ambition and love serve to muddy the memory. Oh yes -- the soul becomes "seasoned" with its unique experience and emotion; however, the body ages and becomes "drunk and blind in its pleasures and its pains." Time does not allow the rapidly aging body to exercise its maximum soulful potential. Stumbles are inevitable as men "live" their roles.

The passage of time effectively traps older, seasoned "souls" in their "muddled" and progressively amateurish bodies. This seems like such a dreadful fate for those men who have gained wisdom and purpose. How many wise minds have lamented mistakes and said "If I could only go back and relive my life knowing what I know now"? Yet, those are the common workings of "A Man In His Life."

"He will die as figs die in autumn,
Shriveled and full of himself and sweet,
the leaves growing dry on the ground,
the bare branches pointing to the place
where there's time for everything."

The imagery in the last stanza speaks for itself. Finality is bittersweet for the person who has dutifully raced through his earthly existence. He has become "shriveled" but still maintains a self-proclaimed "fullness" and "sweetness" until his fruit becomes another morsel of the final harvest. the death to which he and all men must ultimately succumb.

Still, as "A Man and His Life" draws to a close, Amichai underscores his theme of promise and resurrection with the image of "the bare branches pointing to the place where there's time for everything."  

My Brief Take

From the time we are young adults, we men are flooded with conflicting emotions, drives, and expectations. We must learn to fight and to love while living with some semblance of civility and proper decorum. To be both Superman and Jesus is impossible, and while most of us desire to do our best to emulate perfection, we are doomed to fall woefully short of our own expectations and the expectations that many others set for us.

Let's face it. We can love someone and yet feel serious attraction to someone else. We can hate someone and at the same time have such respect for them that it seems that we actually like them. In our man's life, we quickly learn that it is simpler sometimes to not question the turmoil of our inner world too much. We just don't have the time or the innate ability to be a human Gentle Ben.

Given the restraints of time, we men often make decisions without considering all the requirements of right and wrong. We decide to "live in the moment" and move ahead, but later we must deal with the consequences of our actions. By doing this, some of us unfortunately get trapped in a vicious cycle, a whirlpool we cannot escape.

All good-hearted men handle many conflicts in their time. They consistently succeed and fail, and most don't find time to adjust. Amichai reminds us that though we men are often "full of ourselves," we are also pawns of fate. I believe he is saying that we must accept our lives and our imperfections as we attempt to discover whatever "sweeetness" we were meant to add to the world -- at least until the time when the branches are bare and the autumn leaves begin to fall.

The Future

Future Dreams 

As the future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams,
Almost always, the creative dedicated minority has made the world better
By using nonviolence, the weapon of the strong.

Their strength does not come from physical capacity but from indomitable will
And action, which may not always bring success, but must taken to achieve a taste
Of happiness in this world of imperfection. 


The weak become stronger after they find failure is assured by trying to please everyone,
So they must proceed to move ahead and accept their errors as true portals of discovery, 
Heaven-born things that fly to their native seat. 

To be and to be accepted as unique means unreasonable people must fight the rigid globe
With imagination more important than knowledge and never take their eyes off the goal
Of living a life they examine to the fullest.


Nothing great in the world has been accomplished without passion and considerable struggle,
And the most wise remember that all great successes and failures are never final.
The journey is the just reward.


 By Frank R. Thompson

Thanks to George Bernard Shaw, Roger Babson, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Albert Einstein, Henry Ford, Georg Hegel, Socrates, Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, Martin Luther King, Jr., Mahatma Gandhi, James Joyce, Eleanor Roosevelt, Bill Cosby, Benjamin Disraeli, Chinese Proverbs.

"People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is a light from within." --Elizabeth Kubler Ross

 

A Love Poem, I Think

Innocence of Being

The energy of love sustains
The life force or our being
As a form free of creation or destruction.

At its core lay the energy of innocence
Whose wants and desires and mysteries
Project degrees of our self perception.

Others arouse this innocence
Setting careless flames to our self perception
By holding mirrors of scrutiny too close.

So we walk fire with self and simply react
To the disharmony inherent in our disease,
And we believe nothing is lost and nothing is gained.

Accepting the physical nature of all humans
As flesh, muscles, bone, and tissue,
We lose unconsciousness to grasp a love of fleeting reality.

We deny the trinity of love in frantic, convulsive action
Instead of total absorption in the not-I
Of one beyond the separation of individual identity.

But, again, the Promethean flame rises steadily from within
The whole-E spirit formed in darkness before mentality.
And the everliving energy of love shields the core of innocence.

Physically renewed, we remain grounded as pilgrims on Mother Earth
Yet prone to search for the Home of perpetual love
Until the pendulum stills and an unrealized virgin energy answers.

Proud In Appalachia

I Am a Proud Appalachian

I am 22 million of America’s finest but most-ridiculed minority.                                                      
Call me Scotch, Irish, English, Huguenot, Native American, Melungeon, African American or European
And know me as a proud Appalachian:                                                                                       
Not as a hillbilly, not as a redneck and not as a cracker.

Many outside my geographic area stereotype me with comic common values, traits, or characteristics.                                                                                                                      

They prefer to keep me within the boundaries of their neglect and shallow despair    

While blaming me for my just rewards due to my own laziness and stupidity.

In truth, even if my pockets are light, my cultural heritage is among the richest in the land.                               

I have lived so long with lies and half-truths about my ancestors                               

That I occasionally laugh at my own dialect when others believe it reveals my lack of higher education.  

I am known for neighborliness, humility, sense of humor and modesty,                  

And, I am quick to respond to a needy neighbor in any emergency or trouble,                        

But I ruffle easily when others disrespect my religion, my independence, my self-reliance, and my patriotism.

I, as an Appalachian, believe in a real and functioning society,                                                                   Not in a world that would have me put on airs and display them in public                                                    Or boast about getting above my common rural raising.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         Instead, I prefer to be a leveler who acknowledges universal friendship.               

With the tip of my cap, a wave of my hand, or a little white lie from my mouth that prevents a tenuous argument,                                                                                                           

I am bound to appease others and help them along their way.

Yes, I love to laugh at practical jokes and to tell tall stories                                         

Because these things can help lighten the burdens of friends                                                   

Or take their minds from problems that seem to abide so profusely in their homes.

I mostly believe in the “what will be will be” regarding social problems and public responsibility.   

Call me a fatalist or a Calvinist because I understand labels are just cheap dressing,                                    But tradition and dark history have taught me to embrace hopelessness as a natural human condition.

I, in my native Appalachia, would rather do things for myself to reap my own benefits.                                 
I often learn my lesson through trial and error given the room to experience failures.                

Some mistake my lags of slow behavior for ignorance, but others see through my deep distrust of new deals amid broken promises.

I am a proud Appalachian.                                                                                                    

I once was an Archaic hunter-gatherer,                                                                                  

Then, a Shawnee or a Cherokee member of the tribes of the land.                                                   

Later, I traveled with the Spanish under Narvaez and de Soto.                                                   

And, as an Ulster Scot and a German, I journeyed west through the Cumberland Gap.                 

Today, I am a proud Appalachian.                                                                                                     

I expect to be nothing more and nothing less.

Frank R. Thompson                                                                                                                            

May 22, 2010

Thanks to research by the following:

Ambrose, Heather and Roger D. Hicks. (2006) "Culturally Appropriate Counseling and Human 

Services in Appalachia: The Need and How to Address It," http://counselingoutfitters.com/Ambrose.htm.

Arnow, H. S. (1996).  Flowering of the Cumberland. Lincoln: University of  Nebraska Press.

Caudill, H. M. (1962).  Night comes to the Cumberlands: A biography of a depressed area.  Boston: Little, Brown, and Company.

Hicks, R. D. (2004) Clinical supervision of counselors in Appalachia: A culturally appropriate model.  Unpublished Manuscript.

Jones, L. (1994).  Appalachian values.  Ashland, KY: The Jesse Stuart Foundation.

Kimbrough, D. (2002).  Taking up serpents: Snake handlers of Eastern Kentucky. Macon, GA: Mercer University Press.

Lee, W. M. (1999).  An introduction to multicultural counseling.  Philadelphia: Taylor and Francis Group.

Loganbill, C., Hardy, E., & Delworth, U.  (1982).  Supervision: A conceptual model. Counseling Psychologist, 10, 3-42.

Raitz, K. B. and Ulack, R.  (1984).   Appalachia: A regional geography. Boulder, Colorado: Westview Press.

Slone, V.M.  (1979).  What my heart wants to tell.  Lexington, KY: The University Press of Kentucky.

Smith, R. D. (2000). Can’t you hear me callin’: The life of bill Monroe, father of bluegrass.  Boston, MA: Little, Brown, and Company.

Still, J. (1975).   The wolfpen rusties: Appalachian riddles and gee-haw whimmy diddles.  New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons. 

 The Missing Piece

You can't force the last jigsaw piece of your perfect world into mine
Unless you want to distort the puzzle and tear its fragile image.
Leave the missing piece incomplete, a jagged reminder of distressed times.

My inferior humanity serves as a playground for your insults and tattle tales
As you swing and slide and make merry on the go around of each spin.
Then, you laugh aloud when the flesh from my knee drips ruddy upon the ground.

Your best offense is to defense my every motion of hopeful recovery.
My vast, unpardonable past resides on the soured apex of your tortuous tongue
Where it easily intrudes into every crevice of present fortune.

Playing foolish or being the buffoon requires the same witless mind.
Walking onto the stages of incongruity and conflict, I fall victim to all ruses,
Thus, evoking howls of delight from those ravenous for such foible diversion.

Yet, without the flaw of that left incomplete, perceived completion would be impossible:
The better never bested; the unattainable never attained; the unimaginable never imagined.
In truth, the paradox of perfection is that the only perfect state is imperfection.

Leave the puzzle of my life unfinished and in plain sight for others to behold at will.
The blemished product adds fairness to the industry of its making and its presentation.
The missing piece, lost in process, can never be duplicated and added by the less sincere.

Headline News

News of the Day, November 11, 2009 French authorities call for kissing ban Did Texas execute an innocent man? Acorn fires two workers in prostitute sting Yale coed vanishes days before her wedding "World's priciest dog" sells for $582, g. Sunday school teacher to face death penalty Court: weight-loss surgery to be covered by pizza shop Without Polamalu, Steelers aren't the elite crop Remembering the horror of a bright blue morning We must rethink obesity: Newsweek warning Tiger leaps 16 foot fence, kills zoo worker Texas sends Rangers to Mexican border La Toya Jackson says Michael was so "God-like" Facebook goes back to basics with its version "lite" Secret to happy, healthy marriage is separate beds "Not dating relatives," Audrina Partridge said Paula wishes Ellen the best of luck Women face trial for revenge of glued penis stuck Walruses congregate on Alaska shore as ice melts "Puppy-dog" eyes will ruin your health Hoax reality show secretly filmed women nude Net's plagiarism "cops" are on patrol, dude New Jersey town maintained marijuana thrives Stoned mom made six-year-old drive Are some women "superbreeders"? Iraq shoe thrower gets hero treatment Taiwan ex-president jailed for life for graft Insured might pay more under Obama plan draft Sara Jessica sports new Madonna arms Champion runner has both female and male sexual charms Abuse of prescription drugs dip Using GPS and doughnuts to save bear's slip Message in bottle follows girl home GM will offer 60-day, money back guarantee on new car loans Cellphone radiation levels very widely, watchdogs say Newsweek: It pays to be nice every day Study: one dose of H1N1 vaccine may not be enough dose Why the IPod Nano gets a camera for video

The Human Touch

The Human Touch Your place in my heart is not always better than the touch of your hand. Emotions do not embrace and caress the flesh that enfolds worlds of desire. Yet, we settle for soft ripples of remembrance and distant communication Because even innocent contact implores a response and realizes the romance. The touch rushes the blood of love through the skin as it escapes the pores And makes apparent the heart's feeble weakness for courage of expression. Like quicksilver, tactile electricity demands an immediate response And its ruddy expression paints instant recognition of the nervous solicitude. In quick manner, the heart stops to await helplessly a return of warm consideration As, meanwhile, the flesh courteously presses its rash convergence for signs of limitation. Anticipation steers the mystery of pawing intentions and inevitable reaction As fingertips strive to measure degrees of inner thoughts and emotions. Soon the novelty turns to a mechanical grip or a spiritual enclosure. The curious hand begins to calm the impatient, longing heart And to create an indelible memory as it feeds the relentless brain The simple delicacy of the intimate human touch.

Innocence

Innocence Innocence is its own reward. Given at conception from the grace of the highest love, Fiercely protected from those who might spoil its virtues, And set free to explore a snug island of earthly delights. Pirates of purity raid the fragile sanctuary Attempting to distort every vestige of chaste life. And only the most stable fend off the evil marauders For long tomorrows of pristine perfection. Time eventually weakens even the most innocent As it sweeps away the clean remains of juvenile behaviors And carelessly tosses them away without ceremony Into boxes neatly stored in the closets of the adult mind. Longing and regret eventually occupy the seasoned stage To play their somber roles in tales of lost simplicity And stories of bygone, careless times: Simple, outdated vignettes soon shrouded by drawing curtains. Innocence is the unrealized reward given freely to all. Too quickly undervalued and tarnished By covetous hands of greedy, loveless animals Or by the innocent pawns moved by the rights of natural passage.

Poetry of the Day

Just a Foolish Dream If I saw you laughing and running into my arms, No moment of my life could match my treasure. Words and deeds and promises would evaporate In the loving embrace of such a deliverance. Cold, rusty chains of resistance Would break clean from old tethers As we would share a new, silent prayer For a human bond of strongest devotion. Free from the pride of self interest, Free from the ghosts of never-changing history, Free from the awkward masks of changing standards, We would delight in the new spirit of mutual respect. Such an image often opens in my dreams, A feature in the imaginary theater where fantasies play. The vivid face, the delightful laugh, the dashing sprint to my heart All so abruptly interrupted by the broken reel of conscious reality.

Wonder Why

Wonder Why Your wonder trips wires of emotion in your mind That ignite charges of inexplicable awe And shower you in jagged slices of cutting doubt That cripple reason for the brief time being. Had you presence of mind, Searing lust for adventure, Simple stimuli for motivation, Unquenchable curious nature. Instead, dilemma bleeds yellow streams of uncertainty That seep into all order and precise calculation Until systems shut down by the incredulous agony Leave a shell of unforgiving, lonely paradox. Had you proper admiration, Overwhelming sensation, Adequate meditation, Rational skills of query. You wonder about the lost opportunity. You wonder about the fork in the road. You wonder about the twisted turn of fate. You wonder about the cruel circumstance. The smile The kiss The deal The luck Money Passion Pretense Moment Life God Soul Death

How Well You Know Me

How Well You Know Me You don't know me: You know the things I do. You know the words I say. You know the movements I make. You know the responses I offer. And you know the appearances I display. You don't know me: You know the things I can't do. The know the words I can't say. The know the movements I can't make. The know the responses I can't offer. And you know the appearances I can't display. You don't know me: You know the things you want me to do. You know the words you want me to say. You know the movements you want me to make. You know the responses you want me to offer. And you know the appearances you want me to display. You don't know me: You imagine the things you never want me to do. You imagine the words you never want me to say. You imagine the movements you never want me to make. You imagine the responses you never want me to offer. And you imagine the appearances you never want me to display. But, you should know me: I do some things, Can't do some things, Do some things you want, And imagine some things to do you never want me to imagine to do. I say some words, Can't say some words, Say some words you want, And imagine some words to say you never want me to imagine to say. I make some movements, Can't make some movements, Make some movements you want, And imagine to make some movements you never want me to imagine to make. I offer some responses, Can't offer some responses, Offer some response you want, And imagine to offer some responses you never want me to imagine to offer. I display some appearances, Can't display some appearances, Display some appearances you want, And imagine to display some appearances you never want me to imagine to display.

The Lost Sinner

Witness the hopeless sinner A mistake in the making of a soul Destined to defile the innocent With cruelty and hate His hollow eyes perceive all Without compassion or grace As his voice angrily swears out Base deficiencies of his heart Without conscience or shame He roams without boundaries To torment the good And to violate all sense of order Deceit and anger are the tools He manipulates to afflict Deep gashes of pain On unsuspecting victims Masked with false kindness He dupes his friends Then assails them with allegations Of indecency and misconduct Manipulator, cheater, monster, and abuser- These are his wicked names Bound to intimidate others For his own ill-gotten gains Witness the hopeless sinner Damned to an eternity Of repeated offense after offense Just to dismally survive

I See Only Black and White

I See Only Black and White I see only black and white. No spectrum of light Illuminates a technicolor world. Aquamarine, fuchsia, sapphire, saffron: All are pigments without representation In my crayola world box of two colors. All colors absorb light as dark black As all colors reflect in pure white To the perception of my receiving eyes. The blackness of authority and power, The whiteness of innocence and purity Present no warm or cool shades of the spectrum. Without hue or chroma distinction Saturating artificial or natural light, I navigate with thoughts of simple direct contrasts. All people, all thought, all relations Are concepts of black and white, No matter their complexity. Choices, preferences, and friendships, I clearly see two distinctions Of difference in their form. Right or wrong, good or bad, Friend or foe, ugly or beautiful Become lucid, permanent black and white fixtures. With no colors to stir emotions And no gray areas to cloud interpretation, I rest assured in my total absorption and absolute reflection. No alluring hues of potential disguise Illuminate any regret or compromise In my perfect interpretation. I see only black and white While your color-filled eyes Blind you with ubiquitous variety.

On Being a Terrible Father

On Being A Terrible Father So I disgust you? Pencil my name on paper And erase it until you rub It into shreds of trash With no letters No meaning No memory So I disgust you? Get your friends on the phone And relate your horror In graphic detail Of terrible treatment Terrible trauma Terrible existence So I disgust you? Gather an angry crowd Pump them with rhetoric Arm them with revenge And strike out in anger Strike bone Strike heart So I disgust you? Isolate my existence Torture me into retribution With silence and tension Until I break apart Break my belief Break my understandings So I disgust you? Paint me midnight black Cover over any specks Of bright redemption To darken my image Darken my past Darken my future So I disgust you? Vilify my relationship With your every word To inform the world Of your terrible fortune And your terrible life With your terrible father

Did You See Me?

Your vision extends as far as your eyes can see. You rely on your vision to steer safely Around the dangerous obstacles and sharp curves That slow your journey to the next point of view. I am the menacing figure in the distance. Your eyes communicate the hazard To your conditioned brain And you swerve and speed past me, Just one more inconvenience in your life. Your eyes never really saw me, The "me" inside the looming stance Of pride and conviction of purpose. Just eyes, missing hidden dimensions, And scanning the surface of my intrusion. I stand alone now on the highway of confrontation Wishing that you might have atomized me Into a million tiny fragments of matter From my hidden insides to reveal the proof Of your real intent. The danger of mutual damage in this case Prevented you from being the innocent witness Of such real devastation of body and soul. Yet, oh how sweet it would have been To have stepped on the gas and taken dead aim. What right did I have to occupy your eyes And interrupt your carefree day? I could have become the ruin of your content As I exist merely to get in the way And, somehow, think I matter too. It's a cold, long walk with only my thoughts As I tramp my way along the miles alone. You are probably home now with friends And resting your limited eyes To discern how best to judge tomorrow's fears.

The Hungry World

Some Koreans munch on theie local dogs, The more suffering, the better the meat, Smashing cats in sacks against brick walls To liquefy in blenders and sell as drinks. While Hindus in India eat no sacred cows, If it motherly moos, keep it off their plates. Gods Shiva and Krishna have bovine ties, So cows are divine: 'dus never touch a steak. Islam belief is very strict that pork's a harmful dish. See, some people think "you become just what you eat." An unclean pig makes morals low and spirits fall away And cause one to grow a snout and cloven, dirty feet. Japanese love to sink their teeth in sashimi oh so pink. They dip raw, thin slices in sherry sweet sauces made of soy, And make horse meat a big part of izakaya essential cuisine. The lucky may get some basashi, fat nag's neck is a special joy. Limeys eat their breakfast treat of dried pig's blood and fat. This peppery thrill is often called blood pudding as its name. Mixed in a black sausage with some oatmeal, barley, and bread, Homer in the great Odyssey gave reference to its fame. Yanomami of South America think cannibalism is quite OK. To add strength for an enemy's defeat nothing do they waste; They reabsorb their closest clan in their cremated remains. The tribe serves dinner eating their ashes with banana paste. In the States a kid will eat 1,500 PB sandwiches before graduation, And a typical American appetite swallows 28 pigs before it dies, Along with 51 pounds of chocolate for the sweet tooth every year. So those other folk might look at us with curious, unbelieving eyes.

The Shadow of Indifference

You let me down

Flat, leveled, busted

By the rushing roadway

Bleeding

Going down slow

You let me down

Embarrassed, humiliated, belittled

In my huge mistake

Alone

Hugging my shaky knees

You let me down

Branded, labeled, stigmatized

On the walk of life

Indicted

Dodging long pointing fingers

You let me down

Gagged, shackled, tethered

To a hanging tree

Suspended

Death dancing jerkingly

You let me down

Empty, gaunt, starved

From the raging famine

Skeletal

Lying in debris

You let me down

Unnoticed, unappreciated, unloved

Within a careless family

Ignored

Wishing to be free

You let me down

Dismembered, discarded, swept

Between cracks of conformity

Buried

Knowing you are just like me

Everything Breaks

Everything Breaks

Some small and fragile works

Fall victim to strong hands

That violate their rest.

They snap!

And fall in worthless pieces

As they shatter to the ground.

Other common and cheap things

Die quickly from design

That insures they will not last.

They crumble.

And rest in cans of trash

As they await the refuse man.

The strongly formed creations

Pass slowly in good use

That constant strain demands.

They expire.

And lie in honored rest,

As they rust or fade away.

Great wonders of natural design

Cease not before the eyes

That constantly stare in awe.

They disappear.

And satisfy a God

As He changes all born in time.

Only the Lonely Know

A starless night stands bare in an onyx sky A dim streetlamp glows softly in the airy night A neglected toothbrush rests alone on cold white sink A rowboat struggles upon the waves of the open sea A romantic letter severs ties with "I love you" A past now gone remains in a pair of empty shoes

A liver-spotted hand embraces an old photograph
A lover's last goodbye speaks through a ticket torn in half

A bright beam seeps though an insignificant crack
A shaft of sunlight breaks onto a sylvan path

A dark silhouette stands alone on an abandoned beach
A lonesome child sits on a swing and drags his feet

A portrait stares from a dirty window frame
A sheet of music lies silent and never played

A distant siren wails in the summer heat
A homeless beggar wanders a filthy urban street

A hollow stem grows through a broken walk
A black cat begins a silent midnight stalk.

A glass pane frowns broken teeth in an abandoned home
Trembling knees support a weary head left to weep alone

A lonely fir tree desperately grasping steep craggy ground
A mourning dove on a telephone wire coos lamenting sounds

An unstable lover remains beside a mute telephone
An evicted family packs up the remnants of their home

Loneliness stalks the darkened lives of every soul and heart
Waiting for all reluctant victims to play their empty parts