this certainly isn’t the worst day
but it is a spitting Tuesday, dark, gray,
November where the leaves have lost
themselves
and given up and died.
i see them lying in the street wet, glistening
like they’ve been crying.
i see the trees now twigs
perfectly skinny but strong,
and ripe for a hanging.
we all hurt each other daily
with slices and cuts and stabs of words.
the constant sticks and stones
that strike so regularly and steadily
it reminds me of Chinese water torture,
so much so
we don’t even notice anymore,
it’s just the background white noise that is
slowly driving us mad.
it is certainly not the worst,
it just is one of those every days
like the spitting rain,
relentless
drips.
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