The pale lonely child
of monday
morning's mind
that I seem to
be living—so dimly
inside of
must be
feeling foggy
slow
and serious
as an ugly plaster
cast today—
underneath
its thick
narcotic dome—lugubrious soup
of shapeless clouds
puddles—
unimaginatively still;
and probably somewhere
off
and unseen—even
the brightest—
and most
unselfish of songbirds
is saving
his usually—generous breath.
