Sunlight, that insipid *****,
spills herself all over my desk in an open invitation.
I want nothing more than to run outside, rip off my clothes
and let her ravish me.
My open book,
ever the nagging wife,
looks at me in reproach.
"This was meant to be our day"
"you promised we's spend some time together".
That nagging shrew: I think I hate her.
I want to tell her that she bores me,
that the years have left her lusterless and lined,
full of nothing but dull words
and a dusty smell.