This little piggy went…

by grimbeau

Monday, Monday...

Half-eight and getting dark,

night falls over,

gives up the day,

and slumps,

snoring till tomorrow morning, when it wakes

frozen and dank

in a ditch

called Monday.

If summer comes, what shall we be?

Drunken loons cavorting in the cups of memory:

escapees, refugees, and philanderers, rusting in the sun,

never sleeping,

corroding in the night,

spongers in the morning’s dew:

mist as a vat.

Or, just the moiety of a tanner,

half a sixpence,

belted and braced,

suited and booted.

All dressed up

nowhere to go.