pete-garner

This weekend dies as it begins.
The sinking, sickening feeling 
That seeps into the carpet 
Of the lounge 
Is nothing more or less than manufactured. 
Yet I can close that factory; 
I can fill the space that the 'filler' fills 
Every day. 
I can steer the boat clear 
Of the berg. 
But the grape and grain call louder than reason, 
And regret stands up: 
Its face bare-faced 
Amid the clouds of prepared anesthesia. 
This weekend ends. 
My resolve to end the dying 
Will die, in time, again.