I am use to knowing the day of the week
by the feel of it in the morning.
the early morning,
when light is pleading its case
for presence everywhere around me.
I knew environmentally,
that the sun, of itself, had a feel,
sort of weather like
but not by this lip service of the sky
chipping away, either a minute earlier
or later dependent
upon the season of the year
and its migration north or south.
to know of the day of the week
was more from intentions
laid down from earlier in time and traveling
by habits getting itchy for their cause,
and by the whereabouts of others in near proximity.
the day had its secretive posting all around
but not evident, so to speak.
maybe it was a mood temperament that pervaded
like a pheromone of time.
and I, like everyone else,
live under its seduction.
these days of the week are as a wardrobe
overtaking me, staging my identity.
I am slotted to be
what the day calls out in me.
how did that as persuasion occur?
why do I bother with the fenugreek of experience
when my day is already overgrown
with these weeds of preference already in stock?
maybe I am just a life of camouflage unto myself.
When does my salad come?
and we sit down to a decent meal
of spontaneity and freshness? . . .
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