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Sunday the week waits like a predator. its shadow cast forward, making monsters on the white wall of Sunday. this repeated rhythm, this tide of our lives . . . she takes her crucifix, her anchor, and heads to mass for harbor. half the house sets forth with her. my heretic sons and i, waiting for word from Rome on the annulment, read Crane, yawn coffee, suffer and pace the deck blistered with winds from the outer galaxies. there is an army coming called Monday. a dark Alaric in the center of night planned it all, laid a fuse with ripe fruit timed for the bursting. now i, faustian, squirm before those demons. i have tasted the sweets of Friday evening, eaten the lotus of Saturday. but now the bargain - someone's, not mine - comes round. tic, toc tic, toc tic, toc "look there, look there," she breathes, i say. it is only 3 in the afternoon; there is life in us yet. then i stare at the chalk lines of this batter's box, the blurred edges of our square surrounded by hordes, madness, depression, hordes, my wet hands clutching this weapon passed down from antiquity, this sword slim of poetry. |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Joe Gustin On Date: 2014-06-15 17:41:46
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
You seem to be wielding that sword quite nicely. I don't know what more I can offer.It would be like Skywalker
critiquing Yoda