Monday is wet leaves moaning
beneath my feet,
the pressure of too many moonless nights
falling on morning.

A solitary bird’s lament hovers
in a muffled fog.
A sad little light struggles
to pierce the gloom.

The day starts mid-thought
with a sharp barb I cannot reach
piercing somewhere on my back,
a spot that moves like an itch
and though I rub and rub
along every metaphorical fence post
I come across, the irksome pain lingers.

I don’t look for labels, though I suspect
it’s a form of fear, longing, and regret
mixed in a brine causing me to wake
in a melancholy stew.

My dreams are of flight.
I mostly fall in REM sleep.
Awake, I trip a lot
and look to the skies
in long and aimless daydreams.

Always, the phantom pain on my back
pushes me forward.
Maybe an angel watches.

I’ve never shared a milkshake
with two straws, each of us lovingly
slurping sweet froth
while spewing bits of backwash
as we gaze into each other’s irises,
but I’ve felt time slow down
when stars align and a slight shift
of the earth beneath my feet
when I realize the simplicity
of love and milk and kindness.

When Thursday can’t decide
if there’s many truths or just one big one;
when there’s terror in the imaginings
of the child inside all of us- a child
who still needs to be tucked in
but that’s silly so the tucking no longer
exists out loud;
when the only song playing
is off key with a full head of steam;
when endings don’t seem so awful
because it’s just our dust mingling
with other dust so there’s no real end;
when the bucket is full and we’re thirsty;
when our reach is exactly right
for what we need.