Poem-A-Day: Day 53

Drafty Windows

The day is a drafty window
with wind passing through it
like shit through a trumpet
played by the indelible
memories of a room with a drafty window.

They are the best memories
that money can buy
with credit where credit is due
processed with something more
probable than the best memories.

It is less than probable
in some impossible fashion sense
of irony that dwarves its own impending
doom patrolling day and night
watching the less than probable.

So as the night is spent watching
reruns on an old television set
out to get back to the one thing
that remains true to life:
a day spent drafty window watching.