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If I could compile a stack of Wednesday poems, wicked, wicked Wednesday poems, couldn’t I also compile a pile of Monday poems? Maybe the Monday poems are even worse than the Wednesday poems? Probably not. But, it is late again, so I am going to try to write a respectable Monday poem. Here goes.

All the Work of The Week

All the work of the week is behind me on Monday. Yes, we are out of groceries, because I did not knead. Yes, we are behind with gas, because it took gallons to go places. All the work of the week has me breathless and behind, spent, worn, and bleary-eyed, and it hasn’t even started yet.
Only Monday and the work of this job has me asthmatic and small, all stupid and short of lung, but some are just days, big, and loud, adolescent and stinky, and all dark in November and early December, actually all of that month, and this season lasts a month of Mondays, held cold there in the dark.

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I actually do like Mondays more than Sundays. Sundays are all angsty and whatnot. Mondays actually start off with motivation. For a bit. ‘Night, Monday poem friends. Happy Monday.

 

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