Growing Up in Butter Country

Mondays I’m a bugle, smiling,

yellow clockwork circled by triangles

frightening clouds into shadows

 

I hopscotch planets, hurl Saturn rings on Tuesdays

canvas after canvas of shimmering wheat stalks

farmhouse rooftops, drawbridges, bouquets and chairs

 

Thirst overcomes me Wednesdays; you’ll find me

quaffing Guinness at the pub, rivers of it,

translating Phoebus jokes into foaming Gaelic

 

What I do on Thursdays is my own affair

slinking in downtown doorways, through broken shuttered windows

thrusting and tonguing some naked after dinner mints

 

Why do Fridays always make me nervous?

my popcorn packets burst, can’t find my glasses

get lost in prickly forests, my rays scratched by brambles

 

On Saturdays I lay out on the porch, sip hibiscus tea

read weekend newspapers, seek old friends in obituaries

and contemplate hours remaining for the sky to fall

 

Sundays, thick, creamy and bursting at their seams

my histories of glory hanging from a thousand splintered mornings

I sign my name in gold, grin again and sink into the sea

Mondays I’m a bugle, smiling,

yellow clockwork circled by triangles

frightening clouds into shadows

 

I hopscotch planets, hurl Saturn rings on Tuesdays

canvas after canvas of shimmering wheat stalks

farmhouse rooftops, drawbridges, bouquets and chairs

 

Thirst overcomes me Wednesdays; you’ll find me

quaffing Guinness at the pub, rivers of it,

translating Phoebus jokes into foaming Gaelic

 

What I do on Thursdays is my own affair

slinking in downtown doorways, through broken shuttered windows

thrusting and tonguing some naked after dinner mints

 

Why do Fridays always make me nervous?

my popcorn packets burst, can’t find my glasses

get lost in prickly forests, my rays scratched by brambles

 

On Saturdays I lay out on the porch, sip hibiscus tea

read weekend newspapers, seek old friends in obituaries

and contemplate hours remaining for the sky to fall

 

Sundays, thick, creamy and bursting at their seams

my histories of glory hanging from a thousand splintered mornings

I sign my name in gold, grin again and sink into the sea

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© Johnmichael Simon

2-13

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