After the Noon

Lint dunes roll in around at 3pm. A magma of malaise soaks flagging shoes, pewter molehills baked into every concrete moment. P.M. anywhere outside a pool is a waste land, the day drones in sink holes, waits for the sun and moon to remember to be apostles of good news. Saltlicks on the brim of empty glasses catch fire. Siestas, naps, and forty-winks are available for the unemployed, the rest must hang like bats from the arid levers of an internal clock as we anticipate happy hour. Prior to that sacred moment many will hotly debate which time zone to ignore to get there faster.