NaPoWriMo 2017: #6 (a found poem)

After work days have dragged
obstinate feet through the week
and the calendar has burned itself
upon a paper pyre like a five day phoenix
we dig ourselves from the ashes
and climb out of lukewarm graves;
casting aside funeral clothes,
we alter our inflexible code
of “To do lists” and deadlines,
and become each other’s Friday:
enveloping ourselves in blankets
and hope; sinking into sofa pillows
and quicksand comfort; seeing promises
of the near future in our eyes,
we blink each other presents—
gifts wrapped with folds of fragile whispers
and held together by knots of silken kisses,
boxes of intangible weight, holding
the perfumed stink of well-intentioned lies
about winning lottery tickets,
early retirements,
and never ending weekends.


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