none of the days wrote themselves
blank pages in the morning,
softer than the dew on the grass.
somehow the creeks in the floor boards
learned to write,
and not with the whispers
that i heard.
with each step on the carpet, shuffles
from the front door to the back
not a word spoken by the walls
they never talk,
but only sit and laugh at our singular
2 drinks, five, four more for the lost birds,
two smokes for the road
for the Southern wind.
the idles get crushed beneath waves.
yesterday loves tomorrow, and all
the endless days.