By Marjie Giffin
The Late Hour
arrives early it seems and pits me
against the digital clock face
that dares me to defy its logic.
Defy it I must, for there are no hours
for my own doings and yearnings
unless I scavenge them from the
riff-raff moments of the end of day.
I am used to the scraps of life,
as a woman and more, a wife,
whose value cannot measure up
to the sexy perks of an executive
spouse – whose personal needs
get swallowed up by martini lunches
and after-hour cocktail soirees
and holiday parties sans wives.
Unholy work perhaps to labor long
by sinks and mounds of laundry
and then muster the zeal to steal
some time to pen a wistful line.
Yet fruitful work for sanity to be
saved and some remnants of self
to be salvaged in a day’s late hour.
Learn more about Marjie in her bio on the Featured Author page.