Tuesday is striking
like the tennis ball volleying
between the church tower's inch thick iron bell
rackets telling the time and
the continuum slip between
the feet on the black corner and
the white corner close enough
together to see through
and appreciate the sooty stones
and runnels instead of the glare
and the glaring of understood nonsense
and long winded, easily stomached, disrelease.
Tuesday is striking
like sun dried peanut butter and jelly
sandwiches left on the back of an
upturned plate so it's face wouldn't
need a second wash and
there was already a dirty dish
in the microwave
keeping some crumbs safe,
but the crumbs have grown
over nights and days of
pee bee and jays windowsilled
and there are still some hours left
if you really want
to fix something
that will hit the spotch.
Tuesday is striking
the rim of night like a projector
screen come free of its nail
to smack and spin and spin and
wake, snapped from open eyed sleep,
to listen to the two wheels
fly loose and truthfully
the work of setting the thing up
was worth more than the clips of
family dead and living
blinking into the whiteness of
bald gulbed light against
black windows.
Tuesday is striking
like the threads of a sleeve
popping two dozen at a time
where the cotten blend
catches fingernails unkept and
chewed noncommittal
and wishing for once
that a body would give
a little under stress
instead of tearing through
the wake of day
like a funerary streaker
through flesh toned body soups
across Wednesday headstones
to an early Thursday funch
and it seams every time she strikes
a day late like she's want
the meals mist creep into peripheral
collisions in the margins of
existence that glamor to be bed
and there is no more time
to deal and recallve
before the clock
must be punched at hurt.
