Let This Be A Memory
Between what is right and what is easy
let the feeling pour like steam from
my coffee mug, let steps apart fall out
to chill the lateness of morning
where a quarter-filled parking lot
manages to settle under the naked branches
of one tree, the full dying coat of another.
Where is purpose for the day?
Should there be anger at the core of this
near tangible psychic onslaught channeled
through the eve of exhaustion, that may be
intentional though chance has proven before
it is not.
Let it go then, exist for its own sake, let
it turn in on itself eventually burning
out to its holder's relief,
this pitiful timing.