walking in a poet’s shoes…

the day that was

sectioned off and sanctified,
pretty easily accomplished in the morning,
less so in the afternoon.
By the evening it’s too late
to change the tenor of the chant,
set as it is earlier in the day.

Beyond waking up to a homecooked meal
and a smiling face,
the tenor and tone seep in
through tiny
cracks in the window frames,
without the right words to
shove them back out,
we’re at their mercy.

You know those red lines on your arm
are healing nicely; never
a doubt they would.
So few scars for such a long time.
Is that comforting,
or frightening?

Sometime every mid-afternoon,
the clock speaks
and night appears.
There’s nothing so ignorant
as saying
“it is what it is”
but it’s so close to the
perfect answer.

after all, nobody
wanders around saying
“it is what it was”
because you can’t be side-tracked
by the chains of a
piss poor morning.

A few final minutes before bed;
dropping the day from
tired shoulders and painful hips.
Enjoined with closed eyes
is the average prayer of the inconsolable;
“can tomorrow be a little better than today?”

You never know. It is,
after all,
a tenacious prayer.

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