Bored with Rimbaud
The plague has settled in like a dumb gray fog
and we're all just waiting around
for someone to open up the world again.
I'm bored with Rimbaud,
bored with drink and bored with no drink.
Outside there's a sliver of a moon
and people more useless even than myself
shuffling through the dark toward
destinations sinister and banal.
The things that used to save me have faded
and even music seems emptied of magic.
My incantations won't resurrect my love,
the bones just rattle and creak and go quiet again.
The doctors and the politicians say the cure
is on the way, but who knows what
will be left of us?
The silence of the night
breathes like something alive
and I toss aside Rimbaud
and go back to Baudelaire.