There’s an urgent sense of hours ticking
Cars driving too slow for the atmosphere
Pepper never black or sharp enough.
The words scamper across the page
But no matter how many poems you scrawl
They’ll never catch the feeling before it leaves.
In the morning lethargy descends
A hand pulls the covers higher
Hides the day and all its demands.
Feet hit the floor and sting on the carpet’s edge
Life should pull you through the door
Stir the blood to rumbling.
But the other end of the day
Finds you on your knees
Fumbling in the pile for the elusive fragments.
Nothing’s prepared you for the sensation
Around midnight of the world callously racing on
As you follow, floundering in the dust trail.