Poetry a la JACK

In the still of the night
as I gaze at the ceiling
shadowed by the moonlight
that peers its way in
though the slats in the blinds,
I toss around in my head
all the figures I see
as if they were clouds
puffed into recognizable shapes
in amazing ways
about a brilliant blue sky.
But the somber shades of grey and black
exude a meloncholic peace
in that they appear harmless
but have been drained of the vibrancy
of the crisp, cool day
my mind wishes it can conjure up.
But alas it cannot
create a happy image
like of smiling, frolicking lovers
wading in cascading fountain waters
with pressed slacks rolled up
to the buldge of the calf
and fancy shoes dangling off of delicate fingers.
The figures that appear
while I lay there in bed
do not smile
they maintain stoic faces
that mock me as I stare;
There is no fountain here,
no brilliant blue sky -
there is no lover here,
just me by myself ...
until the morning dawn overpowers each shadow.
But, oh, if I can't right now
make out a dingy pair of shoes.

JACK