dailies

it's late it's early it's i don't know

i hate the mad rush toward spring

this loss of an hour

* * *

but spring on spring

i recall the job of custodian i was

i had lots of downtime

* * *

i'd stare at a print of a painting by renoir

that one where the young man and woman

swirl in dance she all coy he all desire

* * *

i'd lay on my back

looking at that print

for hours upon hours

* * *

the smells of spring of dew of blooms

mixed with the smells of cleaning fluids

as i try to build a life line by line