Richard Hartwell

One is led to wonder
just how many perverse
gods need combine to
ruin one mortal’s day?

Conflict and ennui remain
pivotal opposing poles,
characteristic attractions,
for each weekend.

One tires of continuously
squandering these days
with such acrimoniously
punctuated boredom.

Unexpected interruptions
claim the mind’s pleasant
expectations, only to lose
out to the broil of reality.

One continues to hold
an unassuageable urge
to range and to regulate
the minutiae of all days.

However, regardless of best
intentions, perhaps in spite,
lowering skies continue to
depress rising expectations.