You’re the day beneath dark folds of eternity,
the annihilation of the weekend.
Move through the hangover.
Pull up bootstraps reluctant to budge.
You’re the awakening one resistant eye at a time
of alarm clocks,
tight schedules,
meals eaten in distraction.
You’re the beginning of an Everest climb
to a faraway Saturday,
the workday holidays try to obliterate,
a day without weddings or picnics.
You’re the day starting with mmm,
but you’re not good to eat.
Still you stand as a buttress
in the midst of aversion
at the head of the week,
able to bench press six other days,
wings spread for takeoff
up through the trees.
First published in Backchannels Journal January 14, 2020