Sisyphus takes the day off

what-ta-hell, fuck this                        

he snorts brushing 

the dust from his shoulders

reeking sweat

a rictus grimace 

bent with aching knees 

ankles a mess

soles calloused

and slit

a deserved glass of white wine

to wash away the exhaustion

yes, wash the guilt too

hubris-cleverness

offending Zeus

hopeless addled dreams

God knows he can't be

switched to a worse punishment

every climb to the sky

a bittersweet birdsong

moments later fading into

echo off eroding canyon walls

his bruised heart over the years

hardened to grey stitched pain

in the winter

a fleece of snow

adding to the slipperiness

of the scree

fuck this, he says again.