Say No More

It's like they say. It's always like they say the girl must try to see. Tomorrow. Make her work. Some coffee black, familiar clothes, some sunshine after dawn's brief rain, a break in her routine discord, a part to play. Your local bus, it's on its scheduled run commuting dismal dreamers into gold, like money in the bank: it comes, it goes. She goes along. She does as she is told, there being that to tell as not's been done. You smile. You know the questions not to ask, your children running laughing off to school in casual mask. Each minute you compose will fold back on itself, her morning jewel.

pearls 

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