by John Grey
And it is predictably unsaid, the day comes first,
Wednesday this time, and the sun, and the pictures
on the dresser, all masquerading as the time past,
the time to come. It is silent behind yawns. It hides
beneath bedclothes. The throat should be its
friend but it’s off to gargle. The hands are to the
forefront but they’re fumbling for the light-switch.
It’s morning and the bladder has hit critical mass.
Veins are nervous for coffee, afflictions for their
pill stream. There’s two people in the house
but neither will acknowledge the other. A man
needs to retrieve his own skin. A woman must
find her face in the fog of sleep. One’s on the
stairs. One’s already in the kitchen. Sure, they love
each other. But by nine o’clock at the earliest.
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