Poets and songbirds have often mused about feelings at the end of the day. As I walk home, I think about the song, "Wee Small Hours of the Morning," or about a poem, "At the End of the Day," by one of my favorite modern-day poets, Gregory Djanikian.
At the end of the work-day, especially if it has been a long day, I have a strong urge to call someone and verbally unwind: talk about personal things. Someone close to me.
Often I'll call my parents or sister; I've just about exhausted my short list of far-away friends whom I can call under the guise of "having a moment to catch up." I think my parents worry if I call too much... they also worry if I call too infrequently.
Anyway, a warm August breeze stirs my hair. The walking is pleasant. Two couples holding hands pass me on the brick sidewalk. I've worked hard today and am tired.
For me, that special time of calico feelings isn't the "wee small hours of the morning." It's now.
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