My second poem for the 16th, making up for the one I missed on the 13th.
On the Days I Feel Like Hercules
There are days--
a lot, more than half--
when clearing the shower to wash my hair
is like clearing of the Augean stables,
a monstrous task that is as
off-putting as it is necessary,
and somehow so very difficult,
like lifting one of those
cartoon dumbbells bigger than my body.
There days when brushing my hair
is a fight with Stymphalian birds--
pecking and pulling, never stopping,
and each time a twig is pulled from the nest,
there is pain and weariness,
like the tendons of my arms
are being torn and carried away
in sharp metal beaks.
There are days when every task
is as unbreachable as the Nemean lion or the Erymanthian boar,
when all arrows and spears
bounce harmlessly from their sides,
leaving them untouched,
and somehow more horrible than before.
There are days when tasks seem as petty
as stealing apples, or belts, or a silver deer,
only to amuse and appease powers I don't understand,
and days of pointless tasks like fetching Cerberus
(when I would rather play fetch)
or gathering sacred cows and Cretan bulls.
And there are days like hydras,
where the end of each task spawns two more,
and there is no Iolaus to help,
and a prohibition on open flames.