The Interstitial Interval (From Wake To Work)
They vie out in dim farm-fields,
the smoke and the stars.
Not for touch, blood, or gold;
just a hundred seconds more.
I am awake so I must decide.
it’s unfair,
she said,
we both know that.
And what responsibility isn’t
I had said.
I yawn and drive past the dead deer on Millersport Highway.
Great.
It’s not her.
It’s me.
Stopped;
but the day is never that,
is it.
Copyright © Andrew Gallagher | Year Posted 2009
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