Out of Sunday’s Door
Time creeps up on you slowly through the shy
Minutes of Saturday and then leaps out
From Sunday's door with all of your school bags
Packed. Trying to keep the weekend going
Is like trying to gather a picnic
Up a stepladder with precarious
Crockery teetering. Soon your eyes will
Illustrate the nude apricot haze of
7 A.M. The Sun’s rays are spilled buttons
Out of the jar, you gather them up as
Spares, your cuff hangs by a fibrous milky
Ligament of cotton. Shirt untucked, a
Dance, exposing a belly that begs dusk
To come calling in the sky that you breathe.
Grant Tarbard works in his dog's home whilst not paying him any rent.