A Poem about a Friday night doing less than nothing while waiting for a telephone call

it´s so clear

that i need a rest

even though to stir

would be the best.

oh only a possible rest,

a moment not to think,

so even a little remembrance

would make me shrink.

how could i distend

alongside a fresh bed

and wash all this stuff

that shits my head,

so that i could start something

again from a immaculate blank?

A bed with a mattress like a placid lagoon

i could plunge and slumber where Hope sank.