Summer sun through the lattices
illuminates the suspended dance of dust
that weekend sweeping never clears.
You press against the foreclosing glass
of Sunday afternoon, a new week
bearing down. Your diary's stippled
with promises that raise no appetite, just
the same dull swing of the arms, the bleak
prospect of the screen; meetings.
On Thursday you're thirty: "Drinks at work"
"Dinner with parents." You'd hoped it would pass
unremarked, another drop of dark
lying untasted in the bottle.