the days never change...

saddling up to the typer
I think about trying to write something
something more then different
to stain something that hasn’t already been said
and as I do
I hear the wheels in the tower spin and hum
while the early morning world
passes by under my window
and the clouds float
greyly above the dark sky.
through the fork view between the tree in the tree
I see a red and white banner billowing in the breeze
as headlights swim laps through the city streets
followed by a flock of geese flying south
in January
and I rock back and forth
clickity-clacking in between
these, the passing moments
realizing each and every day is
the same
next time around, Sunday
will still be Sunday
which will be followed by Monday
and so on and so on
on and on it goes
until they are no longer
because the days never change
but that’s alright
because the sights and sounds
of a solitary moment passing
always do
even when witnessed by
the same eyes
looking out the same window
on the same early Sunday morn’

-2007