A Day Mirrors Itself by Martin Willitts Jr.

A Day Mirrors Itself

1.

It is exactly one minute after midnight; a new day
crawls out the last day like a snail pulling darkness,
after leaving its shell. The town rolls up
sidewalks, the streetlights yawn, fighting sleep,
and the curious dandruff of snow filters the stilled,
patient air. Everyone fidgets with cabin fever.
At eleven, a teenager races to beat curfew.
I sit in a dark room, developing daily snapshots, rising
out of printer’s emulsion of memory. Snow cakewalks
in its finest attire. The music of silence falls on bare branches
like a waitress tips of a few pennies. The clock drags its feet.
Sleep eludes me. Silence teaches me about listening,
and I am a terrible student. Although it feels like an hour,
it is still the same minute of stillness and intention to detail.

2.

It is still the same minute of stillness and intention to detail,
and I am a terrible student. Although it feels like an hour,
sleep eludes me. Silence teaches me about listening,
like a waitress tips of a few pennies. The clock drags its feet
in its finest attire. The music of silence falls on bare branches
out of printer’s emulsion of memory. Snow cakewalks.
I sit in a dark room, developing daily snapshots, rising
at eleven. A teenager races to beat curfew.
Patient air. Everyone fidgets with cabin fever,
and the curious dandruff of snow filters the stilled
sidewalks. The streetlights yawn, fighting sleep,
after leaving its shell. The town rolls up,
crawls out the last day like a snail pulling darkness.
It is exactly one minute after midnight; a new day.

by Martin Willitts Jr.

Martin on Facebook

Editor’s Note: Beautiful imagery drives the repetition in this poem, offering the reader subtly different views of the speaker’s life.

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