Debussy (A poem about depression)

The other night I was listening to Debussy
And it made me sadder than all the sad things
Empty chairs or grandfathers alone on park benches
Flowers in sidewalk cracks with cigarette butts
The man in shirt sleeves at the window
With the universe in his eyes
And the street in his ears
The weary rain falling on the weary earth
The tired leaves drifting to the forsaken ground
Like so many yellow tears
All the bright-eyed cars on the highway
Rolling off to who knows where?
To the end of the highway, to the end of tomorrow
Where all the rough hands are folding soft laundry
Or resting against the rim of the sink
Holding you and the weight of the world upright
Because tomorrow will be the same as today
And today was the same as yesterday
And yesterday was the same
As a hundred years of yesterdays have always been.

But still there is Debussy,
Who will always make me sad.
Maybe I am sad because the sound of Debussy
Was the sound of all of them--
All of the sad things rolled into one.
But sadness is better
Than to feel nothing at all.
And so I will listen to Debussy and cry
About all the sad things.
Because to feel is good,
Even to feel sad.