The Big Sad

 When the Big Sad comes down like a last act curtain on a sorry play in a 
     dingy theater, I can't remember my cue.
 When the Big Sad comes in my window and flows through my paints into my 
     models breasts making them round and hot like slow easy sex in 
     August, I can't see.
 When the Big Sad comes into my room in a short tight skirt and heavy 
     perfume, I can't even think.
 When the Big Sad comes, I just can't.