The Place We Call Monday
07/02 2021
Hogland scur, gristle and womblay
Stray the viny path toward Monday
The woodland circus where we gather to sing,
To play and to dance ---
Where we sing the songs that the king has written,
And ask for our own autographs afterwards.
The circus is ancient and crumbling
The servants are mothers and fathers
They swipe the knotty floor
Of moss, grass and spleenwort
Before they open
The place we call Monday.
The angels gather in its rows
Of rattling pine benches
With bouquets that they picked along the way
Of red archangel, thistle and comfrey
And they clap at the burning sage
Accidentally lit by the weary father.
Deviation, to Monday, ---
Is Monday's true name, anyhow.