the weary slog of cooking
of buying and paying
done with pretense
coercion smiles
I'm tired just the getting up
or lying down has become
too much
the blanket
like a shroud pressed on my shoulders
I don't mind
the weight of yesterday
cold a frozen slush of memory
regret crushing boredom
I wait for the perhaps in the morning
How still a picture you have painted. I can do little but sit with you and sigh.
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