Ten minutes ago,
the Sun lifted up her skirt
and stepped over Mt. Tamalpais
as she placed a heel on the throat of Day
while I watched from my front porch.

And while I was trying not to peek to see what’s up there,
she was making him sorry for leaving
(as she always does)
just as he was falling asleep,
(as he always does)
drunk, maybe, from that warm heaven
that only a martini or being unaware can make.

Truth is: Day never sleeps
(the trick’s on the old lady)
because he is always one-eye-open, one-eye-closed,
‘round the corner and back again
in some new city with new people every hour
while she waits for him,
sighing quietly, softly falling behind,
drifting between clouds and
an atmosphere of want.

This bothers her —
one day, he’ll be sorry, she knows —
she’ll finally move ahead,
(‘round the corner and back again herself!)
and THEN who will take care of him: the Moon?
That’s a laugh.

Sometimes, the rain speaks her sorrow,
but still she follows him.
Can’t help it.
And they go, go, go together.
And when they do,
ain’t it a beeyootiful thing?

And gosh:
tomorrow, they will return,
her heel relaxed,
his eyes wider,
all other days forgotten,
(here it comes!
the cadence,
the unraveling)
the distance between them remains ever persistent.



Copyright © 2015 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

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