Day forgets its night, drawn on by golden dawn,
Abandons the light sleepers who must go to work
And find rolled stones hidden in dirt. They drudge down
While day high on its noon starts crawling up the bricks
Chasing shadows over tarred rooftops, through windows,
And along tea-stained apartment wallpaper.
Afternoon peals into evening’s bells and dark drolls
On as the work-wretched wearily follow
The toll roads home. Day beats them there, has already
Raided the liquor cabinet, calling welcome,
Welcome, pours rounds and rounds. The air reeks with whiskey.
The moon’s eye is half-shut and day hopes that nag
Won’t be looking for a good time tonight -- Ah-- night’s
Now and day’s misthought its bounds again. Those sleep-
Less don’t care how loud it’ll sing in a few more hours.
Brighten, burned boy, smash through this morning’s glass panes.
© 1998 Heather Burns
