To Work Poem by Maria Barbara Korynt

from Sunday to Sunday
is tiring me
transparent with colourlessness
stone city of unfulfilled promises
my doctor is waiting for ages
that I will turn up
as the mother suffering from the flu
in order to complain about too high
thresholds of angular houses
killing with the height
hope for breathing underground aromas in
and to sounds of rodeo - lift
and what for me there
I will persevere with the cure g
and you notice your woman
buy an automatic washing machine for her
used or old f
go with her with hitch-hiking
to Paris and to Italy
install blinds in the car
it will be warm pink and cordially
you from living undoubtedly deserve something
and remember
the plain French polish of the body is bending
in places desired
not causing chips
so to work
do something clicking into place