The newspaper drapes a lifeless
shape over the arm of a couch, like
fallen leaves of yesterday; past shadows
of news and names.
Lines of cars pass by below. The street
yawns of morning. The aroma of coffee
walks to the bedroom where last nights
clothes lay asleep on the floor.
The overhead piping creaks. Someone
walks heavily in the hallway. A window
shuts strongly. A brief opening in a cloudy
sky sheds slivers of light before closing up.
A black cat moves to another window sill.
I wish tomorrow was Saturday.
Roger Singer 