Weeks Revealed As Troglodytes
I woke up this morning
Tired as a wolf-hound
After the chase.
The day is as stark
As an unfinished concerto.
Mondays are like that,
They are the beginning--
An unwrapped gift.
The weekend is an abandoned beach
And dirty snow pushed aside.
A new and well-oiled axle is turning.
My wheels are turning.
It is a time for molding,
For casting lots across a Persian rug.
We gather up the days as we go along
And nurture them like fools.
Every week the tide washes away the old debris
And pushes new refuse upon the sand.
Picking litter is the lot of those
Inclined to service,
Always scrubbing tidy rooms.
Troglodytes wait to be remembered
Under the pick of a rock hound.
The seeker finds fossils from the past,
And the hours pass unnoticed.
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