A Poem, for which I apologize in advance

In the sun spattered,

and soaked day,

restless and petulant,

I wait.

Make efforts to keep,

the images in my head,

(those of walking,

head down)

from speaking to me.

Don't make a mind,

for him,

that isn't his.

Don't slather your skin,

in hyperboles and

inauthenticities.

These would be

well worn missteps,

and I know better.

armed with the idea

that this may only be

futile,

I face a clear day,

as though the sun,

is finally

finally,

coming up.