Monday’s heaving footballs

force the path to deepen as it narrows,

the air a heavy burden,

carrying yesterday’s disappointments

as though they were more precious

than the fool’s gold of sentiment

we use to barter with the gods.

We are legion in our confusion,

voicing theories and forming prayers

into mournful shapes on the tongue,

rolled between hands otherwise useless

but decorative as they flick the light

around us up and away.