I don't have a Wednesday.
Wednesday disappears from me -
it scampers away like the mischievous child
that time is, climbing up the rafters and
tripping people over when they least expect it
Wednesday is the steam evaporating off the bathroom mirror:
I wipe a small clearing with my perfumed fingers
so I can see myself better,
stare into the forever-abyss of
my own reflection
time winds back and forth and back
and forth
My Wednesday is
the last pages of a very good book,
but my weekend is the world
in which the main character comes alive.
