The chance of a weekend miracle waited too late.
Going cold once again into the metallic evening
The end of Sunday’s rest starts the forced sleep,
Suppressed.
Then morning rises, only not enjoyed.
Whatever the weather, it is clammy.
The body’s muscles sag and ache
Mourning the fading imprint of the bed,
Enduring.
Caught in a door jamb’s edge,
Writhing from stuffed agony,
You launch into a shower.
Dread is lightened by sunny side eggs.
No matter what demands you,
You feel a glimpse of maybe a change to make,
A wake up call, to live more life in bed.
The chance of the weekend miracle
Is still the prayer within your soul.
Yet, all this time in working life
Seems to keep you all alone.
Ah, here it is, I dare say the word
Love would be the last frontier of
Work’s frontage road.
A strong desk of molten gravity
Where you spread your lover bold.
Wanderlust with companionship
Why not that and no more?
Evening is bloody home again,
Too early.
A Thursday seems like a Monday’s birth.
Cycles of time play regretful roulette
With the light, the light of the Earth.
The day’s slow injection of malaise,
A season
Bereft to find something to do
Your weekend miracle, a lover so soft
Reliable? Not as a clock!
A watch, an alarm just bought; but
For me and for you.
Hair Peace, Bed Peace
Peace being given a second chance
I will no longer be afraid to sit at a desk.
A season goes by in a weekend.
A miracle lasts.
Empathy is Poetry 