Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

Open To September

I am tired of riding this dead horse,
across the plains,
across the valleys,
across the rivers that sing.
You say I don’t have to.
You say put down your sword
and pick up your flute.
How easy it is for you.
There,
in your leather chair
with the wrinkled cushion,
bottle of port at your side.
I watch the smoke curl round you
like a belly dancer’s veil.
But I digress.
It’s Monday and the towels need washing
and the floor needs mopping.
Yes.
I had forgotten the diary on the kitchen table
left open
to September
catching autumn leaves
and secrets
while I sat here on my
purple futon
smiling.