thursday. dirty unused tissues collect dust bunnies on the floor.

i have moved off the page and there is no excuse for my absence.
two or three persimmon pits lodged in between the heart
and spine, feels the pulse of the afternoon drums played
by a child's grimy hands stinking of eggs left out to rot,
what a waste. what a waste of pen on paper and colors
bleeding through the marker tip, sucking
every last bit of disintegrating chalk
falling down like snowflakes on a pretty day,
dandruff on a bad day, or dead skin cells,
dead silence, just chalk dust. disinterest, it is
never as good as you think it'd be, never
as bad as you thought it was, feet stomping down
right before the next steps fall, clock work rhythm,
fine and functional, though not ideal. manmade patterns
break and convene, move like an ant puddle
feasting on the street spilling sweet refuse.