early middle of the night Monday morning
the black hole of a red skies
and slick wet streets drawing in the eye
always the shaking vividly scoped void
separating the peace of rest and Lord's-Day reflection
and the gray plunge back into the daily shuffle
past Monday midnight
always the most desolate time of the week
to have to crash out of place every day
the common condition that puts us
in the worse possible places
(oh I lost a good thought when I tried
to retrieve it) but it is our governing matrix
and it is just about time for that blank stare out
the window at the wet red cloth of the bleeding night...
Content (c) 2008-2012 Philip Milito. All rights reserved.