I trek to work under the fierce and threatening silence of the week,
a fuzzy melody of deafening bass unheard over the din of mornings
slowly scratching the post toward winter like beat poetry, the unhindered flow
a welcome change to thundering summer nostalgia. The yellow fire will douse
tonight on another end, tomorrow the denouement of willing my feet carry me
away from the two of you, until the day of the moon brings back the infected
urgency of providing, the thick ink of responsibility, the lingering anticipation of the next bridge in time’s melodious journey toward routine, rote, and habit.