Monday, Monday

Slowly stretching Monday grunts rubs its eyes, rolls slightly left, farts. An achy sun shuffles about the room, shields itself from the mirror’s reflection, mutters to itself “Clouds! Where are the clouds?” “Oh, how I hate those five o’clock shadows.” “Damn the Sun dials!” No double cappuccino! No Jimmy Dean breakfast! “If I can just hang on til noon” “its all down hill from there.” “Why Do I listen to Sunday??” “C’mon, hang with me tonight, watch the late game, you’re good.” “14 friggin’ innings and a rain delay.” “There really should be two suns y’know, like, so I could chill out after an evening with Sunday.” “Hey, maybe I’ll go to the beach. pass out a few sunburns, heat up the stones they have to walk over, melt the parking lot pavement.” “Can I get a union cloud break here!!!” “Damn, I hate myself. Yeah, yeah, can it. You try being Monday…no good songs about Monday, no great sports metaphor, none of the hoopla that Wednesday gets.” “You can never find a cloud when you need one.” “do you know how long a Monday really is???” “Maybe if all you people ran in the same direction the earth’s rotation would speed up.” “Anyone got any Advil??” ©7/29/2018 for Mondays Poetry Contest sponsored by – Tania Kitchin