Today, the heavens
threaten to cave,
crows cry brasher
than most days,
and the teaspoon birds
sing half-heartedly,
offsetting none
of the doom and gloom
that came
without warning.
Suddenly,
nothing is as it should be.
The sun
makes an appearance
briefly
but burns dim
and glim through
the leaden sky-
as if it were
a candle lit
then tossed into
the ocean-
smothered
by the deep
in merciless
slow motion.
The notion
that this light
will die
and not
come back
presses from
all sides.
Nothing will be done,
of course.
No one can achieve
anything
under these
circumstances.
So the dishes
stay stacked
in the soapy sink while
I nap like a child,
then trudge wary
and weak
through a day
that did not dawn
for the living.
I’ll wash the dishes
tomorrow morning.
pm poetry 