Six PM

Six PM.
Darkness not far off.
A neighbor’s cat
loafing on the front wall.
Doing the afternoon thing —
TV, a glass of water,
a wish for enough ambition
to practice the guitar,
a self-loathing raised
from the soil of knowing
how much I could be doing.
It’s a lost day, again, one that goes
by the formal name of
Monday through Sunday.

I’m jealous of that cat
for such willing public laziness.  
I’m jealous of the dead
for never having to move,
for never being expected
to move.

Six PM
and you shouldn’t look at me.
If you look at me, 
don’t be jealous of a damn thing
about me. Move along.
Do something I won’t or can’t do —

look alive.