If there was an extra soul
to break open when the first
was worn down, it was needed
Mondays. The burst appendix,
the foreign visitor, the rum,
all the rum, Jesus Christ.
We couldn’t help but turn away
and run off, hoping for sunshine.
Feisty devils, they caught up,
the stray vultures, dying of thirst.
He spoke unheeded, they couldn’t
hear him. I couldn’t hear him
but I saw his lips moving
and the scowls of his confederates
and knew it was time to go home.
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