And with a tired look
I turned to better ideas
rolling up my sleeves with
infinitesimal care.

Nothing is more than a dull throb
on Tuesday morning.

Rise. Wash. Eat.
The triumph is in base mastery
over raw material.

The alternative?

If I should sit, silent, waiting
one minute more,
what should become of me?

I mark this thought passing
as it comes with shuffle feet and wanders by.

Could I sit forever
waiting for impetus
that never comes,

held aloft by ideals that
this morning with its false promise
should be deferred
for personal desire?

I’ve stopped listening for it.

“There is an old sound to Tuesday mornings.”

I am unsure of anything,
unsure who speaks to me.

“I thought it would be easier than this.”

Pull a book out, open it up.

“It’s not supposed to be easy.”

There it is; the blank, wide stare.

“Try and remember…”

Both faltering now, and winning.

“Try and remember… who you are.”

I turn now, the cold swivel a definitive shove
to all forms of false comfort.

I won’t forgive hope its destructive qualities.

Not on a Tuesday.

Just concentrate on details
till the day dissolves
to small, strained absolutes.


3 thoughts on “Tuesdays

  1. this morning with its false promise……oh yes, and the ending, wonderful, so wonderful. I keep telling you, you’re really good at this poetry business. (big hugs)

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