The White Hours

there are three white hours in a day,
one for each daily prayer
said whilst the dealer throws the cards down
and declares the day a bust.

there are three white hours in a day,
and i wear mine like a black dress,
that molds to conform to the days personality,
and usually ends up a horrid
frock with holes.

there are three white hours in a day,
one chime made the city jump,
a second one and the baker dropped the bread on the
butchers wife who ran the knife into the wall
and pierced through the little girls head

making her dunce hat fall like sand to the ground,
disingrating into a steady stream of nonsense,
my hands move swiftly to capture all this as it is.

there are three white hours in a day.
if we can spend one inside me
and like a book you can read me
althought it’s jumbled and the inks running
fast everything should be there somewhat in tact.

maybe we’ll jump the broom tonight
and kick up our feet like the floor fell through
while dancing in giddy circles
pretending that there is no house
and there will be no tomorrow.

or perhaps, this will be the white hour where yout health fails,
so does my head, my heart,
witl perish with either.