Evening Poem #64

Now that evening is stoled
around the shoulders, there
is time for more misgivings.
The un-level bentwood chair
pushed under the table,
a leg of which propped up
with a book of matches.
The tired linoleum curling
up for the night where
the kitchen ends. Dull
shears. Expired pancake
batter needing to be
thrown out and coffee
grounds, too. And tonight
the clocks needing, as well,
because time will skip
an hour at 2 am, and they
will be wrong by morning.
Of course, they won't miss
the hour or being right
like we do, like I do,
or the list of things
always infinitive: to keep
going, to shoulder discontent,
to forgive you, old love,
for the missing hours that
to be honest, total days.