a painting, for beth
john sweet
or here where
shopping carts rust at the river’s edge
or here where empty parking lots
fill in the spaces between
abandoned factories
here where plastic bags flutter
like the flags of defeated nations
from the branches of february trees
spent all day in this forgotten
room searching for the sun
took the pills but still didn’t
feel much like eating
didn’t feel much like breathing
just kept waiting for the end of a
winter that never came