Monday
Monday, architect numero uno, you raise your 2 x 4’s
out of the blueprints of dream,
framing a maze of hallways, annexes, intricate
porticos onto the brand-new air.
You, Monday, stanchion by my side my entire life,
let me never linger merely at your threshold,
or dread to open your latch,
but wander your sub-floors eagerly,
room after sawdust room, hoisting a ladder,
inspecting the massive ridge beams of your roofs.
Grabbing a handful of galvanized minutes
how deftly you hammer each into a perfect minute.
The whine of circular saws glues itself into the morning
as you dovetail, diligently, each intricate mortise of day.