My part is paltry.
My role is rest,
a test of poise,
of patience.
My role is recess,
a stepping back
not in lack
but release.
My role is repose;
to sabbath this moment,
to be full stop now
to draw breath, to respire.
My part is paltry. My role is rest.
I slip on the
morning.
Sleep falls from my torso,
cast aside,
another laundering project.
The day fits well:
snug meeting,
loose lingering at
coffee’s break. Later I take
issue with an unthreading of time:
a paucity of pauses exposes
my weak spot – mid day runs away with tasks,
a bit too tight – but at
night, I will loosen my tie,
and fall into the alluring arms
that strip me of busy as I search in drawer
for clothes of repose:
night’s shirt.
