This Day, Refusing to End

If you were a day, you too would refuse
To walk gently into that good night.
Clinging at the edges of the frame,
You too would have clawed and scraped
Like a brat denied for the first time.

Stopping for a moment, you lift your head,
See the backs of heads bowed in compliance,
In silent anticipation of the end—of day,
Of a week, of something vague and prickly.

The dark gathers at the corners of your vision
Like a bad photo in need of a retouch.
Looking down can’t stop it, nor slow
The ruthless comfort of the night.

The lamps turn a yearning shade of yellow
That curls up your insides fetal and
Wraps you under covers on a couch somewhere.

You try not to slip, not to go down
That familiar road which always ends
With the same hue of blue.

You lift your eyes and let
The cold purple air wash over your face.
Somewhere the crisp smell of laundry
Warms up the sidewalk, a longing
For a hug at the door.