Overcast sky of a Friday like
corpse of a dead swan
pleasant creature it was not
it’s live days

Curtains of the windows are drawn shut
soft hand of a woman has not opened them

the hand that smells of expensive skin lotion
bought a rare jewel for her self pleasure

My shoes are tired of walking
anticipating departure from this world
I’m trying to prepare something
like a half brewed coffee from my grandmother’s jar