Tuesday, November 7

Haven't the time of day for Boethius.

Like the yellow smog that curls around
the door-frames, the pedantic shabby grandeur
of industry lurks on the road I'm bound.
Down go the books, up go the sleeves, with candor
and humility attempt to move
my clumsy hands and countenance in ways
useful to the means my cause approves.
Stumbling with hesitant smiles through weary days,
I find myself day-dreaming about you.
Weary, a-weary I have sighed
over spilled hopes and broken memories;
I'll wait till you come home. Darling, what drew
you from me draws me to you. I hold tight
to dreams of you and I at rest, in peace.

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