The Noon Hour
Hot, humid, burning sun rays
it's the noon hour smack in the light of mid-day,
the random moments of a Monday deluge of renewal
back to work to the tied-down, set-in-place routines do all
pushing back the weekend play and scenes that flee;
the grit and grime of hard physical work release
managed, stressed, perspiration indiscrete,
the sedimentary desk chair resting weary feet
sequestered uncomfortable and lean
locked in closure at the old computer screens;
the phone tags to update this or that
the pay scales uneasily raised then taxed
paperwork printing to and from the fax;
just another day to start the beginning of the week
mundane, ordinary, fatiguing, ever on repeat
with the morning hours slipping past as we speak,
the noon hour
marking half the day,
complete.
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