My choice of drink,
is always blue.
And that's always,
on a Sunday.
You never seem to approve,
their syrupy sweetness,
and sprightly shades,
(That match my own)
I dismiss your dissent.
I'd like to believe,
your tastes are weird.

Yesterday-
On a Sunday,
you ask me,
in all earnestness,
"But, why?"
And I tell you,
with blue stained teeth,
and blue stained lips,
in a tone so convincing,
though I'm not too convinced myself,
"This way, I can beat
in advance
the Monday Blues,
by consuming them."
Because honestly, I hadn't had any...

Until today-
On a Monday,
as I sit in my office,
and you sit in yours,
several kilometers apart.
Distanced by districts,
Separated by traffic,
The blues get to me,
and I ask myself questions,
Why
some jobs need qualifications,
Why
there are no flying cars,
Why
this city is so big,
Why
the weekend is so far.