Half way through the day I discovered it was a holiday.
I checked the calendar in the kitchen just to be sure.
I stood by the sink and looked out at the day
and I still didn’t feel like celebrating.

The guy next door gets drunk on
Sundays.
I watched his wife get ******* while he was at work.

I started a story the first line was this:
“A brown bagged bottle of Strawberry Hill with cherry lip-gloss around the end sat in an empty locker as the Cheerleaders cheer some cheesy ryming song”

When the Light was accepted the drunks
in the bars blocked the windows and the doors.

The dancing girl remained that pale beautiful
I watched her stumble with a broken heel dangling
off her pink manicured finger tips.

It didn’t get hard.
It didn’t become such a challenge
until I knew I was approaching the end.