The Days

I used to mark the days by what I’d scheduled to do, Like Fridays with the grandkids For our weekly rendezvous. On Thursdays there was quilting And on Wednesdays, never fear, I’d be at the museum where I am a volunteer. On Tuesdays I’d play mah jongg Once a month, or else I’d go With my husband to a movie Or museum for a show. On Mondays, with some friends, I’d meet To walk and have a meal In places in the city that We’d heard had some appeal. The weekends often took me With my daughter and my spouse Out to rural Pennsylvania Where we own a country house. Yet now the days meld into one – No differentiation – With all of my activities On permanent vacation. It’s meaningless to call each day, Like Sunday, by its name At least to me, for in my life, They’re sadly, all the same.