When all is said and done
It’s the ticking of a little black clock
The swish of blinds turned against the dark
Or water rushing to fill a cup
To soothe a sandy throat.
It’s lathering up with withered soap
The soft thud of the pillow
A wheeze and cough from heater’s door.
A final scratch of pen on paper
Reminds me of day’s end.
And what has been accomplished?
What has been fulfilled?
Another day capped to the rim
Of life in all odd glory.