Today, I caught a sadness.
It started by waking in a room with no sun,
no arms around my waist, whispered promises in my ear.
It spiraled up my legs as I walked out the door
forgetting my morning coffee and to walk the dog.
I tried shaking it out of my foot, but it got caught
when I tripped and no one was there to catch me.
It didn't stop tugging at me until I accepted it –
wore it like a blanket - keeping me warm while I never noticed.
I found out later that someone had loaned me their melancholy;
it was my neighbor's crashed car still parked in their driveway,
shriveled like a mistake on paper and steaming of lost money.
It was the grumpy teenager behind me at the grocery store
who rolled her eyes while I nervously dug for my coupons.
It was even the dog I had - not the one I forgot to walk - but
the one with floppy white ears that ran away when I was six.
It was not the five o' clock scruff, scrip scrape scraping
against my check, the deep whiff of artificial man I inhaled
when I stepped in for a kiss to a body that was no longer there.
The type of sad I caught was dangerous, maybe worth a hospital visit.