Noon to Eight
Tomorrow will be different, I suppose.
Less cold, and more familiar.
But here in the ice gnarled streets,
where the smoke from chimneys of far
off houses mocks my progress, I shut
my eyes. The leaves, in piles across the
lawn have been raked and put in
black plastic bags that nearly burst
when I line them up along the curb.
It's back to the grind tomorrow.
Deadlines, paper jams, and traffic snarls.
And I've come to crave the monotony.
At least in theory, yet in the thick
hours, after midnight, when all my neighbors
swim in dreams, and snore their nightmares
onward, I find sparse words. Or long dead
fragments of ideas that tend to meld just so.
Comfort is a blank lined page.
Now half-full with truth, and awe, and
what time clocks strangle with such sad