Late in the day, in the silence
of an afternoon, the sun’s full
and may go to bed soon.
I can’t eat anymore rice
it gives me dreams.
I know I say I don’t prefer lunch
but you know that I secretly
crave a pickle and something
tender, to soothe these fickle
eyes, persuade them to shut
if just for a respite.
A vacation, from all the
working machines, within
my peripheral sight, toiling,
complaining, angry that
I can’t be reached merely
by extending an insincere hand.
Who says there can’t be
rain on a scorching day
to soothe the pain
a life can accumulate?
Photo by Charles Postiaux on Unsplash
