“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Friday, April 10, 2020
Bad hair day
He just came to bed.
The clock is wrong.
I am late
for nothing
so I get up before the alarm
and there is a notification
waiting for me
about a suspicious charge
to approve via Texting Y or N.
The internet is not working,
the wifi dissipated
my money evaporated.
My new husband
drinks, thirsting for his further demise.
My daughter starved herself
famished for failure.
My son avoided the real world
where the day breaks
optimism down into an icy rain
while the wind is whipping up
a bad batch
of loose and split ends.
Painting by Edgar Degas (1834-1917), 'Nackte beim Kämmen' in Public Domain.
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