Workday (Poem)

If the last dewdrop alights

and the final night aligns

it will be no fault

of the rest your eyes

have lost, desired

for this past x amount

of ticking.

 

Stubborn lids

lift and lash

against the many breaths

borne of Wednesdays

of no sleeping in

no snow.

 

Snow hates Wednesdays.

 

Trifle, you seem to say

cranium sobbing

with mouth still.

Window will turn upwards

and out for you this

coming end. Regain

your sense of snacking

midday napping

leave off

knuckle cracking.

 

The Sun is your friend.

I promise.

I can’t wait for you

to touch it again

as you reach in your dreams

towards beams

their caress

so much softer

than weekdays made it seem.

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