Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Tuesday


has a perfection that haunts me,
like the oracular whine in the cabin of an airliner
sailing over Ohio.
Something transient, the lack of judgment

gifted to time neither end
nor beginning, nor yet even middle:
some minor point in the development,

often missed by fast readers, where
the characters are quietly putting on
their humanity like early spring jackets:
a favorite word, a particular thoughtful expression
that comes over one’s face
when listening to music
or writing out French homework,
trouble falling asleep, trouble waking,
an inclination towards cloud architecture,
a mild hatred of cats, a violent affection
for a certain sitcom.

The events of Wednesday will swallow these things.
On that absurd and turbulent day,
someone new will hate us,
we’ll make Grandma angry for the first time
in twenty years,
we’ll be falling in love, we’ll get chased
by a nasty neighbor’s poodle,
we’ll save someone’s life,
we’ll run over a pregnant opossum
and feel evil for days.

But for now,
the sky as yet dim and bland,
the waking dog
raising its nose to the fading moon
and the Pop-Tarts hot in our hands,
let us drink up the perfection of Tuesday.

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