Afternoons like a long hallway

in days of sameness and exactitude.

Modern life is better ordered than I am!

Am I not wild and unknowable?

Am I not a free mad-man standing where I choose?

Sometimes I am a hung-pig

gored upside-down in a slaughterhouse,

moving toward inevitability,

and it’s just the day-to-day

and the good ol’ routine and the

modern bargain we each make

but my innards are all spilled out.

It’s a Case of the Mondays if you want to call it that,

it’s the lack of a properly nutritional breakfast

or a sense of time-liberty lingered from the weekend;

it’s all-of-the-above and etcetera too.

One ought not to labor all their days away if it can be helped,

and one ought to let dreams guide them,

to say: Someday I will be Someone Somewhere!

Yet if it can’t be helped:

It’s a beautiful day and the rain held off,

a walk in the gentle breeze after work,

home to a couch, a kitchen, and a bed,

early night tuck in and wake early

to make a better breakfast.