And the morning
gives way,
as a thought
to a feeling. The middle
of the day
is an acoustical ceiling
with cathedral rafters,
pine scent clinging
to the blistered studs,
a plum line marks nail gun,
sundial in a
pinch; quarter
of three, quarter
past already
last chance
for cobwebs to dance
with sun motes, saw
dust in a belfry;
that disco
jew's harp
jump and jive
intro, bottle neck slide,
Roundtree the morning's
already a powdered
chalk scar
on the floor
of someone
who died a lifetime
before: You say
drywall, I'm more
sheet rock,
the red rubber
song ball, it's five
o' clock.
gives way,
as a thought
to a feeling. The middle
of the day
is an acoustical ceiling
with cathedral rafters,
pine scent clinging
to the blistered studs,
a plum line marks nail gun,
sundial in a
pinch; quarter
of three, quarter
past already
last chance
for cobwebs to dance
with sun motes, saw
dust in a belfry;
that disco
jew's harp
jump and jive
intro, bottle neck slide,
Roundtree the morning's
already a powdered
chalk scar
on the floor
of someone
who died a lifetime
before: You say
drywall, I'm more
sheet rock,
the red rubber
song ball, it's five
o' clock.
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