the little VICTORY

Brooke Wallace

A bedside table overtaken by
Thirteen dollars’ worth of plastic water bottles.
Mold hungrily waits for night to cycle once more,
For the barely nibbled sourdough sandwich to reach the inhospitable peak. 
Three and a half fortnights ago the sheets hugged the bed,
Smelling like fresh linen.
Crumbs now fall into all low-lying places,
No longer awaiting the quick sweeping from bed to floor. 

In the wee hours of the night 
Clock hands spring forward of their own volition
(or that of the legislators).

The sun no longer flees towards a beckoning horizon 
at the mere hour of five.
Warm light clings to every modest corner of the little washroom,
Even after the clock hands gently tick past seven.
Suds cling to every single strand of auburn hair
Graciously spreading their long forgotten raspberry scent.
Sheets yearn to be tossed round and round
Until their tainted nature is washed away,
But tomorrow the sun will wrap the world in warmth 
Unlike its wintered nature. 
Eyelids close blissfully.  
Thirteen dollars’ worth of plastic water bottles
Lay at the bottom of the blue bucket of rebirth.