minutes to midnight

tuesday walks down the street
in a sharp-looking suit,
his black shoes
stepping over broken glass and cigarette butts
with a graceful ease
even though the sky is dark
and the city is falling asleep

light poles are dimming and fading
the soft radiance dying away
for the sky is dark and soft
and tonight there are no stars

there is a building on the corner
with its dimmed lights and half-drawn curtains
that tuesday walks to,
where wednesday watches
from the window above,
her face saddened, paled, drowned
against the warped and weeping glass

when the clock starts to strike,
chimes swelling and echoing off walls,
tuesday walks up the steps
wednesday greets him
with a kiss on the cheek,
the tattered dress she wears
twisting around his arm

the clock is silenced
and wednesday exits,
tuesday unmoving
on the smooth floor
at the top of the stairs





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