Memoir, Poetry, Writing

Off-Track II

Days off
these days
are for
longing,
skipping,
long walk walking
poetry
bars for breakfast
potatoes and eggs
kicking stones
friends like squirrels
and birds
and gnomes
homes where nobody’s home
but working and I’m thinking
have fun in there
whisper-staring through the
front window at a dusty dining
room table, at the tall burgundy
taper candles still
in their wrappers
wicks never been lit
Days off are for judging
watching my feet on the
concrete
pine needles, the straws
from convenient store cups
the occasional cigarette butt
and I’d be lying if I left out
that I still, out of habit,
hope for a
long one
poor
trash
girl
Days off are too hot,
pleasant when they’re rainy
optimistic or full-of-shit
Quiet
Loud
I regulate
the sound
Days off are liquid
coffee grounds in
the wastebasket
and why do they
make those things white?
Days off are songs
on the radio that make
me say man I wish
I could wail like that
Days off are
long and
mysterious
these days

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