memory, Poetry

Fourteen Thousand Six Hundred

times these lids have closed
and dawned on days
at 6.00am, waiting at a cold dark void deck
for the shuddering school bus trek
at 5.00am, waiting down cold lined corridors
for the oil-slicked armskote to open doors
at 4.00am, waiting with a cold gin in hand
for a final song by a weary house band
at 3.00am, waiting with cold words in mind
for you to call and waiting, for me to find
at 2.00am, waiting with cold towels and mop
for the fevered vomiting to stop
at 1.00am, waiting for the cold comfort
of forgetting and forgiving the hurt
at 11.59am, waiting for the end
and for the second half to begin.

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