I don’t know
the choke
of depression

only the watery
fatigue that wears
away at the edges
of me some days

making me
one of the lucky ones
whose brain notices
a row of sunflowers
poking their wobbly heads
bright and yellow
over the gate
like patient spectators
watching me
watching them

and just like that
the edges of me are crisp again
like rumpled bedsheets
that got tucked in

while the sunflowers
wave their hopeful heads
just the same way
at the next person
whose drapes are drawn
not by choice,
making it too dark
to see.