Hours To Fill
I've hours to fill these days
those sixty-second decades
occupy each place I go,
the dust thick about my home
a fit, sad place to write her name.
The ominous thud that fills my ear,
another beat of labored heart -
Soft, fair-pale skin
tender searching hands,
hair dripping from mornings' shower
traces across my waking chest
those morning glory memories
go now weeping away.
Thoughts and will should end in love
in the end.
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