Sunday, May 03, 2009

#438: Tired

I'm slow as cold molasses, slow as pans
of tepid water creeping toward a boil;
as languid as the shifting desert sands
and thick as thirty-thousand-mile oil.

I'm sleepy like a puppy when his hours
of romping through the meadowgrass is done;
like Dorothy and the lion in the flowers.
Like any kitten stretched out in the sun.

I'm worn like some old suit with frayed lapels,
beat down like doors of long-since conquered keeps;
depleted like a year-old battery's cells,
and slumberous now as any thing that sleeps.

The time has come to hit the sack, lie down
like crooked fighters, bound for Sleepy Town.

No comments: