Tuesdays: Poetry

By Gaylord Brewer


The weekend’s degradations
have receded almost sufficiently
to look forward to again.


Monday’s starry-eyed
resolve? That’s happy history,
too. What were you thinking?


Time to slow it down,
lower expectations, pace yourself.
You’re not even half through


the week’s race you pretend.
Eat a grapefruit, maybe,
weed a little garden, keep your head


and voice down. Afternoon
dozes into evening. Order in
and forget the kitchen,


all that fuss of knifes and burners.
Embrace the day forgotten
before it’s even over, slack day,


when everything’s a rerun
and you close shop early,
bland and sober, nothing much


—thank god—done or decided.