Crumbling Monday, already tight
in the gut, muted mind, gray sky
with no reprieve gives way
to the solace of Tuesday, the long
reflection that stares back with coal-
black eyes. Yours?
The threnody of Wednesday,
the particulars no longer mattering,
just the tune, lamentation of
mid-week for Thursday, inescapable
Thursday, skid marks on pavement:
what went on here, you wonder,
having missed it, or so it seems.
Friday’s short haul is diminishment—
what promises shows signs of giving
way by Saturday, the day of the lost,
as is Sunday, with fervor.
Even in a dark room you’d know
the day, its breath against
your neck however you turn.
Mark Simpson’s work has appeared in a number of magazines, including Hiram Poetry Review, Cream City Review, Faultline, and A Clean, Well-Lighted Place. He works in Seattle as writer for an instructional design firm.