The Reperception of Circadian Rhythm

Sunday Night is the Worst

Eleven thirty-five
Between noon and midnight
Through the glass
The Portland rain.
Me and the city of roses
Are lying down
Anxiety sleeps over
Only on Sunday,
Invading the present wish
To be still
With
Spears, smoke, arrows, cannon balls
And pistol-whips
Across the bow of Monday
Making every sound
City symphony Monday thru Saturday
Now eerie exaggerated
Exasperated
On the street below my bedroom window
Someone honks only once.
A simple chorus
A sharp
          Distinctly familiar call to mate
Piercing the hoary night
The audience quiet
Waiting for the one
Cymbal
Apartment door to slam
And the orchestrated notes
Like a doe
Running for the iron buck
Idling in youthful shelter below
Dodging hunters arrows
Brushing branches thrashing hallways
Determined with pancake anxiety
And lipstick commitment
To the anticipation
Of a different meaning
To an ordinary flight
Across the fearful distance
From here to there.
I know this opera.