Saturday the thirteenth.
It begins,
a friendly rag doll of a day.
Loose-limbed,
frayed edges.
Feathered skims of clouds
trace the sky;
the first pencil strokes
of a sketch destined to
become a watercolour.
It turns out to be
a banker’s promise.
Small print brings cold,
penetrating like truth,
rain is liquid needlepoint.
They stand bouncers at my door.
Errands lose their urgency,
tea becomes the only
appointment worth keeping.
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