(x = space)
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Panic of 1819
(and probably in ancient Rome and every Friday since)
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I don’t have it yet
It’s Friday
I don’t have it
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In a suburban way,
I want
To have earned the weekend
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Bad night last night
Today’s not much better
Except I’m awake
If duly
And can
More practically
Resort
To caffeine, should I wish
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But there is
Something better
I am sure
Something to find my spirit
In the rut
If not a hole
And pull me through
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It’s feelings
It’s truncated thoughts
And more
A weight of sin
Perhaps
Though don’t we bear that
Every day?
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Well,
Design
And draft away
And with a shape
Construct
A frame
Add more materials
For texture
And color as that matters much
On Earth
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And get it done
For presentation
Monday
By five
Or six
Or seven
Then find our friends
Beside what we call
Colloquially
The watering hole
That other creatures need
The literal
More direly
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But let’s go in
And break
Exhale
Find solace
Even in this world
In trust
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Or
You know
We could go home
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C L Couch
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Photo by Daniel Gregoire on Unsplash
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curated in “Friday clouds”; looking like mountains—Friday mountains?—with the moon an evening invitation
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