Retirement
Without work, weeks wobble.
Leisure leaks from weekends
Infecting weekdays
With the laziness
Of Sunday’s soporific hours.
So, when you ask
“What day is it today?”
I struggle to recall.
For I,
Like you,
Have forgotten too
The shape of days,
The contour of the hour,
The power of Friday to excite
And the dread
Of Monday’s
Siren call to work.
Days become as one,
No tasks to give them form,
And each one born anew.
With absolutely nothing,
We must absolutely do.
© James Rainsford 2013
Leisure leaks from weekends
Infecting weekdays
With the laziness
Of Sunday’s soporific hours.
So, when you ask
“What day is it today?”
I struggle to recall.
For I,
Like you,
Have forgotten too
The shape of days,
The contour of the hour,
The power of Friday to excite
And the dread
Of Monday’s
Siren call to work.
Days become as one,
No tasks to give them form,
And each one born anew.
With absolutely nothing,
We must absolutely do.
© James Rainsford 2013
Note to readers: Your views are always welcome. I'll respond to all who visit here and leave a comment.
Kind regards to all, James.
