wesley gibson hall


A sweaty glass
	lays in the hand of a tired man
Husbands of a wife,
	a woman in business.

The lemon rests easily against the
	side of the glass,
	slowly changing the water to juice

Running a finger around the edge,
	a sound does not issue forth,
but rather a wet finger
	drenched in the now tasteless,
   ice watered liquid

Too tired to get a refill,
	the man shifts his bulk,
   under the velour, the skin settles.

Dry air crackles around him with
	sunday morning 4am
   slow energy.

The sun is rising,
	the man's head is pressed
	back against the neck of the chair.
		he is asleep.

poetry | dad | life

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