ten a.m. is hard

thirteen suns and moons have come and gone
since they said I have the job, background passed.
as far as one knows. ten in the morning has its own
brand of sunshine that lights up the tiles in this kitchen.
the black and white (and cold and dirty) oddfellow floor
glows barely perceptibly, like a déjà vu that stays,
makes the kitchen look just as out of time as me.
we are rarely as sure by the light of morning
about what we were certain of the night before.
the door to the fridge opens by itself, succeeding
in startling. a flock of pale brown birds escapes
and flies through my house until I open the front door
to permit exit. wishing time was not so visible.



Rich Boucher resides in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Rich’s poems have appeared in Gargoyle, The Nervous Breakdown, Soft Cartel, Menacing Hedge, Cultural Weekly and Tinderbox Poetry Journal, among others, and he has work forthcoming in Street Poet Review. For more, check out richboucher.bandcamp.com. He loves his life with his love Leann.

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