The day is finally done. I have been imploring it
to do so for hours. Hours. With no response. As if
I was already dead and not done. I may be a writer,
a playwright at that, but I am not here, now, in this bed
to capture what is happening, what should be, or how
I am to no longer be. I have done enough. I am free
from such tasks. Does it fall to me to write the last scene!?
“The hearse. The horse. The driver. And enough!”