Weekless
In a month of Sundays
without Saturdays or Mondays
I can see where I stand–
how I am rolled up
into a ball, clenched fists
and toes.
I can talk to divinities
as if they were neighbors
and chat about decorative
foliage and the price of eggs.
I have heaps of time to figure
out the way things work,
but not my own psycho-sexual,
aspirational, sabotaging, obsessive,
digestive behavior.
I will never figure all that out
even if I
go back to work on
Monday,
rested, restless,
brim full of fab intentions.
unh-unh-unh
Kathryn Lasseter lives in Oregon and has poems in Cathexis Northwest, Blood+Honey, drip, Stripes, Cypress Review, and other journals.
Fixator Press 