Seven-day

Monday

Left a callus on my hand

Red,

Humid and frozen

In a curve all day - as it delves

In dots and lines and curlicues

My fingers they left

To fend for themselves

Tuesday

Smelt of coffee and plastic,

Insidious chemicals 

In which I dipped my hopes

With clenched arms,

Dream on my sleeve

On my veins

I took my leave

Wednesday I sat

Shivering in the pews

And prayed to silent reason that

The centre of the universe

Hadn’t shifted onto me.

The callus - vengeful absence!-

Cut through my palm once more,

Lip tainted; raw with nervous zeal

Tongue lay subdued and sore

Thursday, begins

With senseless perusal; ends

(forget not, the silent “e-n-t”)
With sunshine, the aberrant warmth

Of bleakness in its bends

Friday morning perspiring, twisting

Me into some sort of plait, cold vapour seeps

Into the linen, the kind

That night can rid one of  - she weeps

Saturday woke by dusty sunshine, 

Coffee and sleep - (the apothecaries of 

Delirium)

So begins the day

Of dreamless marches, recumbent spines, 

Words' weeping headaches remain thereof

Sunday, Sunday,

Sunday, arid as an overcast 4’o clock

An hour hand will rise and fall

You're cold, and quite inept at showing

That you have ever lived at all.