The instrumentals subtly come to their ends
but you don’t know it, laying holding a pen
scribbling, plucking prose from the head
comfortably thinking at the end of a bed.
The calendar’s clear and the clicking’s ceased
for two full days unleashed from the beast
of appointments, protocol, automated roles
to put the daily cereal blocks in their bowls.
Messages of recaps buzz through the phone
of last night’s dance and drunken groans.
The catchups of allies, staggering walks.
A friend’s words are the truest form of talk.
Enquiries and arrangements colour the day.
Slippery pocket change tallies away.
Books half read sit open on a side.
Contentment warms the place you lie.