A Sunday Evening

It's already a quarter to five,
day now gone,
(mis)spent
on pointless thinking
and inconsequence.

Tissues scattered and paper scraps
trinkled over blots of wax,
dust balls side by side
are discarded in
an unwanted remains
cemetery.

Hamlet cigar tin overflows
with dispensed coppers
and silver of weighed down
back pockets
and wary days.

Life and love emptied out
and thoughts for today
are withdrawn,
put somewhere else
to forget
and not be brought upon.

Half full (empty)
bottles of wine
are shadows of waiting
for a week to end,
only to be time with you,
arguments and granting.

Unshifted and unmoved
on the dresser side
beside keys askew
and condoms and lube,
painkiller packs laid open,
foil cracked, torn inside.

Dried crusts on a plate
and hair still curly,
just another question
for mum and dad
on why life isn't
what it should be.

Folded clothes wait patiently
on the ironing board, but
we both know that first reached
will be glass and pen
to jot and drown self pities.

And come Monday morning,
when the week has not ended
and feelings aren't rested,
there is nothing to say, only
distaste boiled over,
more meaning less, eyes close
attempted rest.