Work

They say time heals all: but tonight
The ticking clock hails nothing new,
But endless seconds echoed away 'till five o'clock;
The first timid trace of dawns' dim light.

The air is thick. It doesn't move, but hangs,
just as it does in the light. Theres no difference then
between night and day, no cut off point,
no spiritual sensation of a big bang

To mark something changed. Tomorrow,
The working day will be the same, the coffee,
Idle chatter with the clerk at her desk:
Days marked by an ever deepening sorrow.