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April 17, 2021

if you tell me it’s Saturday
I might not believe you
but I’ll have nothing to refute you with,
no place to stand and to point at the shape of the sky
and insist that it’s Tuesday
or St Steven’s Day

the sun has risen
and I assume it will set
although certainties are
thin on the ground these days

change has been driven underground
for the moment
and is only showing up in accumulations

in times of slumber or uproar
I flee to the familiar
if I had Chandler
I would be reading Chandler
celluloid versions must suffice

slowly adapting to
drastic shift in my hours of business
no more nights, only days

early to bed early to rise
makes Jack a dull boy
so a little inconvenience
keeps things interesting

rationing the good coffee
each morning wondering
when I can replenish the stash;
rationing the beer and vodka
for soon it will perish
and what an experiment that will be

in the meantime
there’s work to do,
so I’ll work
until I don’t feel like it anymore
and go check up on what Philip Marlowe
is getting up to

I’m awake anyway and I still have coffee and
it’s Saturday, after all

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