A Monday Poem
I always forget:
Is today the first day of this week,
Or is this week the first week of today?

This subtle reordering reminds me that structures we place on pedestals
And signify through complex rituals
Are banal and meaningless
As traveling for some unknown, still, despised enterprise

And yet:
To ignore the difference between a month, a May
Or more particularly, a week and day
Is offensive,
Punishable, even, if maintained
By being made redundant at a job we hate
In the same way days become weeks
--Or was it the other way?—
We slowly fall into line

Our whole civilization is founded on such times
Delineation between yours and mines
Months and seasons, seasons climes
Climes and seasons, suns and shines
Generations and centuries,
Januaries and Februaries

We maintain our separation
And produce indoctrination
With the idea that Monday is a rhyme
Which ends with giving more than half your time
To the owner who insists
With pleated pants and flinching fists
The difference between week and day
Is a year’s labor
Handing out stock animal’s salaries
To the ones who know the difference between
Week and day.