Thursday 2:31 pm

I will seize the day into
a shape I step into.
It opens, repeats,
refuses explanation.

I fill it with errands,
and coffee,
and silence,
waiting for it to pass
or mean something.

It’s where joy is supposed to happen—
if it happens.
And where else would it?

Ask too hard,
and here they come—
the ones with credentials and networks,
grave faces,
buzzing phone in hand,
rushing across the lawn
to tell you not to ask again.

Carpe diem... no joy... so sad :(

Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor

The poems are original, Tony, but you sound bored to death. Maybe you should do something different as usual and as programmed.

Thanks Danik. I think you are right. I blame albert camus.