Long Day

Time is not "marching on."
His gait is not nearly so organized or purposeful -
more like the drunk's surging stumble,
or the aimless shuffle of the homeless.
Some days pass at a dead run,
bulls over tourists in Pamplona -
others linger, refusing to end; today is one of those.
He's like opera when you are ten years old,
this abcessed root canal of a day;
his possibilities have drained away
leaving the bloodless corpse of a fat Valkyrie,
and nothing will make that final aria come any faster.
He leans over the pit of night, arms flailing for balance,
as his light clings to the windows, a syrup ooze,
fighting the long shadows for every inch of darkness.
I'd give him a push if I could.