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.
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