Hard Rows Well Hoed

It was a Wednesday; a day woven into prison blankets and dish towels. A day to assess hours unnoticed. A time of trivial hungers. The hard heft of earlier times: - not fitting into anything, teenage fluff and huff. Heartbreak, rearing and loss. The fallow traipse of age. The clinical clunk of clay feet. Making room in a grave-yard moon, for faces mislaid. Those hard rows were all well hoed. Washing a closed face in a misty mirror. Listening to the coffee percolator. trying to shave before its last burble, ears catching the dark drops of a winter rain, he creeps again too close to a hole in his mind. He should not be doing this still, but the hole keeps tugging him. He must keep throwing raw meat into that roaring silence. The hole is deep, and the end of it, is no end. He wishes he could at least, install an elevator. for his ghosts to ride up and down on. It would give him time to drink more coffee, and write some polite, well-adjusted poetry.