done

the day is done

like some overcooked
rice pudding
crunchy and bleak round the outsides a
soft
sickly
sweet centre
that tries like

some desperately late train

rushing who knows where?
for who knows why?

to make us feel
that this day had some special
purpose
it's just not quite sure of
what it was
and now

the station's past
the pudding's
just an empty bowl
charred chunks sticking to its ribs
and the day that was

is
gone