Self Portrait Without Colors
I have become my small routines
and temperate enthusiasms.
The days of my work week
are indistinguishable.
Saturdays are the bank, the liquor store,
and groceries; Sundays are gasoline
and cigarettes, Half Price Books,
and sportscasts. I am the ritual
banalities of days numbered,
numberless, and numb.
and temperate enthusiasms.
The days of my work week
are indistinguishable.
Saturdays are the bank, the liquor store,
and groceries; Sundays are gasoline
and cigarettes, Half Price Books,
and sportscasts. I am the ritual
banalities of days numbered,
numberless, and numb.
|
6
favs |
862 views
14 comments |
43 words
All rights reserved. |
Author's Note
From The Chronicles of His Demise
Other stories by Gary Hardaway
Tags
Comments
You must
log in
to post comments.
Then there's the magic time when poems like this are written.
Thank you, Matt.
I like routines. Well said, Gary.
Thank you, Erika.
What Matt said.*
Thank you, Tim.
What Matt said some more. *
Thank you, Beate.
The weekends ring true as do the indistinguishable work days-good work.
Simply beautiful.
Thank you, Dianne.
No man so devoid of passion could write the poems that you do.*
Thank you, Gita.
Hey, Gary, stop cheering me up so much! Nice numbing poem, tho.