Monday 1/08/2007 12:57:00 AM

It was going to be Monday soon and I wasn't happy about it. It was going to be Monday every week for the rest of my life. Sunday and Saturday too. Every day without rest. Feasting like buzzards on my corpse.

It was bound to rain. And snow. Everything that happens. When you're living. Listening to the world beating on your door. In ticklish sobs. The ringing. The messages. Everything you wish you could forget you were ever a part of. The ladder as you remember life. in all its futile stages. Rung by rung climbing toward the bottom to start over again.

The plastic forks piercing the lettuce. As picnics happened under your skin. The paper plates sweating our desserts right through to the glass. Transparency outbidding touch. In a coup of expectations.

The clean napkins still on the table. The empty take out containers the most metaphor I could accept.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2021. All Rights Reserved.