after work poetry

It wades in me.

wob, wob, wob

against my face and chest.

concentrate on it and all voices find their resting place.

It asks for stillness, gently, as if from someone more poised than I.

wob … wob … wob …

it asks for stillness.

There are no timeframes here, no deadlines or to-do lists.

“rest”, it says, “it is time to rest”.