Verse

Aching Tuesday

Five am chimes drowsy

buried in layers of dust moments

down in the bone trenches;

an old habit

creaking through sixty-two years of debris

casting feeble spots on the bedside wall.

 

Out there the pink is breaking grey

in rhythm with each muscle and cell

hurting back into senses.

 

Streams of water rolling down the throat

is louder than the clouds after the drought

but, it’s set even on the pattern on the drinking glass,

set in the programme

and part of the monsoon.

 

Sitting down with the walls

the last bit of love in the house spills out the window

to run down miles, miles and miles…

across the day that was just erected

out of dry twigs breaking crisp

under the weight of

the no man’s land,

the beastly nothing,

the doesn’t matter-

the deadweight of

Tuesday.

   

Picture - Art by Margaux Othats

Picture – Art by Margaux Othats

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