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Poem: Seven Days in a Wink
I don’t know if you’ve been buzzed by
a Mercedes at the dawn’s
early light to spot the first fingers
of morning tucking in the day but
this is Sunday, suicidal Sunday.
I don’t know if you’ve watched an outie protrude in the limelight spattering poetry while swishing the sweet taste of southern tea in a lonely bar but this is Monday, melodic Monday.
I don’t know if you’ve plucked your eyebrows only to resign in disgrace as your hair falls out to remind you of the oversexed terrorism drowning the amendments in political formaldehyde but this is Tuesday, terrible Tuesday.
I don’t know if you’ve seen the workers in your pizza place push more than the agenda of slices and Snapples but this is Wednesday, garlic and red peppered Wednesday.
I don’t know if you’ve listened to a French man blowing a conch like an animal in the red lit shadow of Walt Whitman but this is Thursday, gummy, sticky, spot-lit Thursday.
I don’t know if you’ve watched a black man feed Kentucky Fried Chicken to his daughter on the corner of Madison and 53rd but this is 9:00 Friday, good morning Friday.
I don’t know if you’ve looked up at the sky and seen yourself laughing in the reflection of a struggling electron but this is Saturday, starry Saturday night.
I don’t know if you’ve watched an outie protrude in the limelight spattering poetry while swishing the sweet taste of southern tea in a lonely bar but this is Monday, melodic Monday.
I don’t know if you’ve plucked your eyebrows only to resign in disgrace as your hair falls out to remind you of the oversexed terrorism drowning the amendments in political formaldehyde but this is Tuesday, terrible Tuesday.
I don’t know if you’ve seen the workers in your pizza place push more than the agenda of slices and Snapples but this is Wednesday, garlic and red peppered Wednesday.
I don’t know if you’ve listened to a French man blowing a conch like an animal in the red lit shadow of Walt Whitman but this is Thursday, gummy, sticky, spot-lit Thursday.
I don’t know if you’ve watched a black man feed Kentucky Fried Chicken to his daughter on the corner of Madison and 53rd but this is 9:00 Friday, good morning Friday.
I don’t know if you’ve looked up at the sky and seen yourself laughing in the reflection of a struggling electron but this is Saturday, starry Saturday night.
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