M Blues

Mondays march us to each our chosen fate,
Like an iron-clad taskmaster resolved
To bleed us of the past couple of days'
Ease from Adam's curse, Eve's felicity.
But how Saturday came with courtesy
As soft gentle sunlight eased through the sheets,
And with a mind tranquil with coffee whiff
On the bun-soft couch with Aristotle.
For a day like Sunday's forever bright,
The first half of trees speeding by and church
Faces, warm though worn, as with clasping hands
Among brothers and the ladies kissing.
So sure as flux is unchanging it ends,
And the latter half assumes its looming
Stance over the sleep that lulls everyday
Of every age and arises Monday.