So we indulge in a wee bit of shuteye just
after midday - predatory snooze designed
to restore instinct, focus energies; it might
brighten a gelid morning’s otherwise braw
intransigence - it’ll be a gloomy evening’s
dewfall with eyelid’s hoar-frosted shutters
drooping, an endurance I’m not impatient
for unless thru this repose’s invention
Must’ve been something we ate you claim,
that bits and bobs leftover ‘creation’, it had
us awake 2am for the soccer match yet to
be played - that’s on Wednesday dammit -
so here I am 15 mins abed for a catnap to
clear the shelves - bowels already free
As such, the woe-is-me translates beer for
lunch as infamy’s primary candidate - that
excuse exonerates a small part of me age
accuses of indigence, but I’m not properly
over the ‘flu either - desolately explaining
nothing except need-to-be-heard, maybe
© 8 July 2014, I. D. Carswell
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