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.