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Morose, slouched, I pace the unlit cellar.
Half blind, semi-intoxicated,
skin shivering, I am glum with grief.

Rush hour commotion is what I miss most.
Families gather, congregate around a sumptuous table,
spill beverages, barbarically devour the bounty and
engage in the seismic chatter of a Borscht Belt lobby.

Apparitions tug at my laughter,
nip at my nostalgia,
nibble on my dreams for dessert.

Standing isolated in a circle,
severed from my archives,
the music appears detached from the instruments,
Forsaken, I dance the Hora alone.