Tuesday

Tuesday mornings are problematic
Too far to recall Sunday’s soft, drowsy light
Over the gap of Monday, a wreckage of stumbling, barely alive, mutter mumbling
Yet at the small foothills of Wednesday’s towering hump uphill to downward slide,
A valley in the hours of days of the week.

Its a gentle confusion, not unlike Thursday without the H and the slow thunders hammer,
Another inbetween space, which as has been made plain, can be where magic hides
Strange jazz pauses, the shapes of sound and form and color
Rustling at the edge of thought teasing
Tongue tip resting, almost words, an agony of recollection but not quite memory.

A muddled, muddy, middle is Tuesday
Running through puddles hesitantly
Halfway between caution and exuberance
Running helter skelter forward back and around
Coattails disheveled and pockets turned out
Dripping the pieces of weekend dreams
Along with crumpled bits of workaday paperwork
Or just mad spinning in place grinning
Time’s perfect problem child.