70spoems/Saturday

SATURDAY MORNING

The yellowed roses
stick up in the garbage,
like shriveled old ladies
praying on top of the pizza box.

There is no aftermath here
of a drunken party or
anything as distasteful as that,
only dishes, half of them
washed and sparkling,
the rest a greasy reminder,
a sort of balanced
contradiction.

There is always
that time in morning,
when the clouds are delicate
and the sun breaks through,
you plan a car wash,
mowing the lawn,
cleaning the house,
re-ordering everything
in this piece of stolen time,
three hours before
everyone rises.

There is no lead long enough
to outrun the morning,
in that one instant
when you see it coming,
it slips through your fingers.
It is the shape of all life,
sliding past your grip
and moving even faster.