Monday, Monday

Monday, Monday
(a single sentence poem)

He doesn’t know why he wakes up,
left thumb in his ear, his elbow screaming
like the kid in his nightly nightmare
but it’s Monday like it’s always Monday
and he knows his shift will start
and, ready or not, he can crank out
three or four pieces per hour
and even though it’s only six hours
it still nets him almost four bucks
—almost sixteen bucks a week—
which will still go pretty far
on his monthly Commissary visit
for the next twenty-five years to life.

Miz Quickly’s Octoberfest #11
~ Monday ~


3 thoughts on “Monday, Monday

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