The day pulls

like a tired


Students slump

in their desks,

poised at the entrance

to the dark stable of sleep.

Class ends.

My chair tips,

and I spill toward home

where my lawn is waiting,

spread across the lap of my house

like an apron catching sunlight,

the latch on my gate waiting to be lifted,

the lock on my front door waiting for the key,

the kitchen, pregnant with fresh bread, waiting

for the soft light of the foyer to spread over it,

the light fading into a gray reminder of itself

inside my bedroom, across my pillow,

bookmark for my dreams, where I can spill toward

tomorrow, imagine it'll be a racehorse stamping at my door,

tearing from the gate.

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