Friday Evening’s Fifty Stories
The stapler’s whapped its final document
In this fluorescent week. No conference calls
Till buzzing Monday. Drop a chocolate mint
In mug of decaf blend, and stir. The walls
Remain as beige as patience. Exit signs
Burn emerald stencil through the shadowed halls
As fifty stories down a siren whines
Some faint emergency, and tension falls
From tired heart. Oh, what a week—a waltz
Across a minefield, stroll through shooting range.
The scarlet rose I bought last Monday wilts,
But twilight—opal after Thursday’s rains.