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.