Poetry

Summer Bummer, 8 (160.)

Midnight takes on a different tone
when there’s no morning commute.
Hours stretch on, sleep begs for attention,
but hands keep typing random shit
on the keyboard.
The mind wanders.
Wonders about work to do now,
preparation for
an uncertain future.
What is a market? How does it make jobs?
Why did we agree to this whole thing?
Oh, we didn’t … so is it time
to pick up a shovel
and plant a garden?
Sounds like the new project
is living.

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