Tardy Mondays always mixed sour Tuesdays.

Now in the Tuesday of my life,
I cling to bills slippery as homeworks
but with far more paper weighing
                                                  down
                                                my shoulders.

Cleaning starts with tragedy
and I scrub nostalgic to golden lectures
shouted from a twenty-year-plus stereo
lacking a dial.
It ends with a mess:
                                         my tears,
                                         their patience,
and all the grime incompetence left.

I use my talent for destruction to char vegetables.
My reconfiguration of childhood slop to delight
a picture of a handshake in my fifth apocalypse.

After a near fatal breakfast,
I'm thankful to share a plate
but the pallet is too autumn
for a winter shielded Wednesday
                                                                    that never dawns.