It’s past midnight on a Sunday & here I am

Sundays are difficult for me and have been for awhile because what comes next is Monday – my day job. All I really want is this – poems forever. So I’ve been writing some messy drafts and snippets.

It’s Sunday again

And that dread is falling on me

The alarm will go off at 745am

And I will be stricken with anxiety

That immediate wakefulness whether

You want it or not

I don’t know why it even matters

Anymore. The dishes fill the sink

And the laundry is drying and

More spills from the hamper

The stained glass is organized

By color so at least art is more

Accessible and the sigh in me

Sighing so deeply I could faint

I don’t know how to count days

Anymore they keep falling and

So do I – and I don’t know how to

Cry this shame which means nothing

And I’d never call you that – tools

Are put away and the bed needs

Making and I need making and

I feel like these old wrinkled

Apples on the counter always

Procrastinating the next step

The cricket drones and I am fighting

For that energy the empty space left

After 10 years of giving myself to the

Boards and ceos and products

And every little thing I had Losing each time