Wednesday, April 3, 2013

prompt: a bright poem/a dark poem

The end days
of official summer time
ordained by some unknown god
in a fluoro office
make seven am seem
like midnight
and why do I have to
get up?

The world is bird-less
at that hour, and cats
prowl on the edge
of vision. I feel my way

Next Sunday, next Sunday,
I tell my wrinkled mind,
tired body, seven o'clock
will become its real self
again - six am, six pm.
While I'm writing, the sky


  1. Not quite so bad for us up here in the sub-topics. The poem reminds me vividly of what it used to be like down south - and still is for those who are still there.