HTML Poem by Mary McCray
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It's blue Monday and we know what to do,
fall apart in the black and blue,
hold our heads above the true.
We're allowed to fall apart this day
in the sinking hullabaloo.
This is allowed.
The missing and the missed
and the damage they do.
Tuesday is grey all day,
heartbreaking into Wednesday.
Which is exactly why I worry
you'll have a heart attack
and so I stay in bed
and read Hemmingway
to keep the unease at bay.
But that get's people talking
and something deep inside of me
is afraid of what they'll say.
From what I can tell Wedesday is a repeat of Tuesday.
Nothing more, nothing less.
It's a holding day
full of cleaning to address
and sufferings to confess
and daydreams to undress.
And sometimes I wonder if this
is what makes me always need to convalesce.
This is the day, dear sir,
the day I don't care about you,
never looking back; don't even start.
The day spins around in a blur
and aren't these really the days you prefer?
Let me tell you about avoiding tomorrows:
Friday's coming, but for you love, I demur.
Then the mythical day of Friday comes
and fates are sealed and bets are off.
Fridays say never hesitate
and even the strong succumb.
This is backsliding day
but it will surely pass
and these bewitching aspirations
will crumble and turn to crumbs.
Saturday, saturday, what a surprise.
Monday thru Friday had no idea
what Saturday would randomize.
Surely, you kid me, Saturday?
Pull on my leg and rationalize.
I live in my own world anwyay
and folly is where Saturday dies.
Sunday is slow and late.
But Sunday won't take the bait.
Sunday speaks my name
a thousand days away,
combing the calendar
for the soul of a mate.