Poetry, Summer 2007
Sixes and Sevens by
Stephen Sandy
He was suddenly terribly tired
and decided to go to bed.
He hadn’t lost at golf or been fired
yet something was up in his head.
He saw his love was estranged
and a tired heart grow surly.
He had every detail arranged—
he dreamed it all; he’d get up early,
go back to work; Labor is life
it said on the postage stamp.
What he ought to do was find his wife,
comfort her in a parking ramp
in the dark of the echoing sodium light
in the car by now they nearly owned.
But again he felt a gust of fright.
Again the fervent stranger phoned.
