Enero, 31

What happens at sunrise, at the first
blink of salty eyes, what we call
the dawn of the day, what some brand
trendsetter, pacemaker, the shuffle
of cards at the first hand, By eleven
whatever hopeful path, opening
bet, first steps, swing off the teebox
has sailed well left into the woods,
ingenuity, and with it faith,
has been killed. By noon we have no hope.
In my day there are blinds, and bland walls
with sad clothes lying about the floor,
the carpeting is soft and boring.
My feet remember last night’s dreaming,
the sweating glass of the beach, sharp stones
on boardwalks, flip flops bouncing about.
They recall the short grass of long mowed
fairways, the deep and well-groomed bunkers.
They see all games as feats of texture,
a chance to nuzzle up to the beach
and leave behind measureless oceans.
By one, I’m empty from the feet down,
my knees have been capped
and hips are on their way to belted.
There are commuters long gone, zipped up
in cotton skirts and fine wool blends, suits
laced with diamonds, patterned in pinstripes
and spades. I go all in, push with hearts,
head over flesh, open the morning
by praying for a good flop, strong turn,
and for my feet, a sweet cool river.

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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