It is a Sunday,
And like every Sunday,
I am spending one seventh of an unwritten eulogy perching my pyjama ridden backside on
gory grandma petals,
That engulf me.
It is all I can do to make my lungs perform their only function,
Their ins and outs catch in my throat like bee stings,
Which is all that keeps me awake.
Before me,
Flashes of dead stars and shiny cars,
Seep from box to brain,
In an acidic, off green shade of motivation.
The door is open just a crack,
The light is a fly,
Sucking the blood from the corner of my eye.
I should open the door,
Let light drown me in yesterday's sentiment,
Or close it,
And sink into sofa creases.
But Sunday's glue keeps me here.
It's another Monday
One seventh of your life
It's the second month of the year
at least six to go before you can earn it all
(Or most of it)
On the seventh day God rested
Hopefully He hasn't since
I wish He'd rested on the sixth too
(We'd have weekends off)
You can downplay religion if you want to
But I'm so grateful for Sundays
I'm considering a small business endeavor
Manufacturing small easy to keep objects
That are interesting enough to treasure
I'll sell them for weights of silver or gold.
sorta like a nickel bag novel (5 grams)
Or a daily prayer writ in stone
To carry as atonement
For allowing congressional thievery
Doncha just love Mondays
An ode to Mondays
One seventh of your life
A workaday deja vu
Memories of weekend
Coloring and shading viewpoints
New Year Resolutions echoed
Into rippled indecisions
Forgotten last minute moments
Of Friday’s rush to deadline
Waiting under rug edges
To be dealt with now
The guy in the corner office
With two window views
Yes the one who makes
Everything look and feel easy
Actually only works
Two days a week
Mondays and Fridays
And given the choice of one
Mondays
Did you ever wonder why?
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