I never understood the non-committal death of a Monday morning.
The sun is the same,
The blue sky, grey sky, cloudy sky, clear sky,
The traffic noises,
The people talking,
The pile of dirty dishes on the dust covered desk,
The clothes exploded across the floor,
Everything is the same!
The room has not sunk into the many circles of some Dante-esque hell.
The soft breeze coming in through the crack in the window mutters just as it always does
About the death of dinosaurs and the roaring of lions:
“They roar and they roar and they roar,
Just like the king lizards did
Not that it matters
You’ve never heard either!”
Slowly, like every other day,
The image of a man who is part bear and part supernova
Rises out of the morning fog,
Shifts from being dust and mist into being a hard thing,
A bone and flesh thing,
Face half covered in hair pushed in on one side where he slept.
The man stretches in the mirror,
Prods his imperfections
And decides they are part of who he is.
He does this every morning,
But on Mondays he believes it a little less.
He thinks to himself:
“I bet the dinosaurs died on a Monday
And never saw it coming!”
He makes tea in a small blue pot,
Watches the loose leaves dance,
There and then he decides
No more thinking about death on a Monday.