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.
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