Our Lady of Monday Morning

They’re training a new bus driver. He’s crisp
and eager. Sunrise looks like a sunset,
hot with color and storms we haven’t yet
spun out into. We look off toward the West
as if that’s what is ahead of us, but
really it’s behind us, as the whole globe
spins light and dark. We drag our days with us
into the night (mundane, muddled, maudlin).

That new girl mentioned my name; I wonder
if she likes me.
My foot hurts; especially
when I move my toes. See? Ow! Don’t do that!
Remember to do your chores and homework,
OK? Come on, honey, you can do it.

Damn it, I dropped the package of cookies.
New plan. I guess I’m having crumbs for lunch.
Sorry, ma’am, I guess I’m not awake yet.

Vane and cup, the anemometer spins
in all directions, scooping hungry chunks
out of the air, then spiraling downward.
In this way, wind pierces both air and earth,
is made electric. Correction: is made
more intensely electric than it was.
Lightning is coming, the storm. By the time
the bus arrives at depot, I’m alone.

I step out, as did the others, into
the bright slanted morning light, slanted news,
the clouds spinning toward us, stories twisting
in the wind, omnipresent cameras
scooping up our every move, mics whisper
our names all the way to work, computers
distilling and distorting the same way
our memories do – fragment by fragment

assigned greater weight even as context
is broken into sand and washed away.

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