Friday is Friday, there’s no other way
to describe it, within our compass.
Between Thursday and Saturday,
normally, Friday puts in an appearance,
But Thursdays and Saturdays beg the question.
And Wednesday’s answer is indiscreet.
Once I counted out seven pebbles and
named lovers by the days of the week.
Some were mortified, especially Monday.
With soft or hard centres all days are sweet,
I said, bringing flowers and cards, pretending,
preferring the beguile of a good Friday smile.
Why do we never question Sunday?
Do we believe in the faithfulness of time?
Fickle Friday. Sometimes when the
hour swings back and forth you’re out
of kilter, shift orbit, out of sorts, incontinent.
Across continents days warp. And twice,
when my laptop stalled, you turned yourself,
out of charge, to Tuesday, nineteen o four.
Refer to: Nov 2021 – Oh my days!
Day after day
The time is out of joint…. your rocking poem puts us in a ‘daze’.