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After this year I will have an entire chapbook’s worth of Wednesday poems. I’ll call it Wednesday: The Poems. And that will be very poetess of me. If I were in charge, I’d get rid of Wednesday altogether. I wouldn’t eliminate the day from time entirely, I’d just rename it Siesta. Monday, Tuesday, Siesta, Thursday, Friday. See how good that sounds? The weekend would still stand, we’d just add in a day in the middle to nap and cook. Sounds reasonable, right?

It’s another one that I have to get done quick, but I don’t want to at all. I want to linger. This is the closest I get to Zen, besides my babies, and I don’t want to have to be well-rested. But I must begin the poem, so, some thoughts from the day:

Metaphysics for the Grief-Struck

What it seems plausible is that there is a finite amount of vitality in this everything. Maybe every laugh is a heartbeat. Or did I just poem Monsters Inc.? Hashtag MomWhowWritePoems. Slash: It seems conceivable that because of the conservation of energy, because of all actions and reactions, because each synapse fired must then fuel something, that the movement goes somewhere, then. Seems that it stands to reason, that every baby in the ICU and teenager behind the wheel and lost-twenty something lost in the dark got all your giggles then, in one instant,

for yours was a laugh that would supply lifetimes.

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Vote me for Sweet Tyrant and I will rid you of your Wednesdays. Hugs to you, poem-people.

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