4pm, Sunday, England
A crisp packet cartwheels from the gutter –
alone in its exuberance.
The final witness, a thin black cat
shrugs and slithers off to who knows where.
Bare trees shudder and
behind dead-eyed windows,
gravy-streaked dishes are wiped
and put back in cupboards.
Leftovers decanted.
Homework is remembered.
We slump –
mourning liberation’s end
and not yet able to repurpose necessity
to manifest all the goals, and resiliance,
and optimism for success.
Minds turn and the hall clock tocks through this sluggish hour
until we concede,
promise that this week will be better,
and make preparations
for another seven-day spin.
