Today is a sad day. I just feel sad and cold.
I did write a poem though!
it is a tired morning.
the alarm buzzes at the same time as it did yesterday and the day before that, and every day;
it never gets easier.
laying on a springy rusty old mattress all stuffed up,
skin worn out like a tire.
she rolls over,
exhausted, used up, ruined.
another day, the same day
lies ahead; daunting.
some stale Maxwell House from yesterday afternoon,
splotchy makeup that looks like last nights prostitute,
a newspaper with nothing new,
"God, I can not talk about the weather, and the inlaws, and the gas prices
for even one more day."
but she will.
the rain makes for wet sogginess, wet hair, and wet dampness on everything,
but she does not even notice.
A tired morning,
a tired life.