i just re-wrote this in a big way

after not touching it for about...... five years. here goes:

Day Is Done

When day is done and golden life’s already gone,
past the point of earth that one can see,
the sun sallows

and ceases to simmer. Bracing night oncoming
encourages age to be bold as
long as night is cold

and, feeling youth’s race run, the end becomes where
one had begun beneath the setting,
simple sun.

As one sits beneath the settled sun newspaper,
wind-scattered and puffed, passes
in the lamplight

to tell the score of the game played and tallied
and gone by the way. And sat on
the outside, ever-outside

the party’s tail-end, a wallflower at close of night
in the close hours of dawn finds
himself unsettled, unkissed

and stood at the kettle with no water in it, no money
for tea: un-done, un-done, oh,
how the day is done.


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