Poem 20160215b

these days
it seems like every day is a sunday
slow to get started
without the hope of a friday
without the promise of a saturday
without even the grim potential of a monday morning

and there are only so many times
you can attempt the crossword puzzle
only so many times you can erase
–you were so careful, using pencil
—-you heard that true confidence was
using a pen to fill out a crossword
——you don’t have that kind of confidence

only so many times you can linger
over breakfast
–oh god, what about a poached egg
—-does anyone really like them
——you could never make them without breaking them

sunday every day sunday stretching on