The Hope of Monday
We all can attest to waiting on Monday - as if it were a person with magical powers. Monday signifies the beginning of a new week where we have permission to start the new diet, make the new plan, or stop doing whatever we deem is no longer working for us.
Whether we realize it or not, we have given Monday all the power. If things don't work out like we planned, it always opens its arms and lets us start again the following Monday. It can become a never-ending cycle of hope which we really can't label a bad thing.
In the following poem, 11 am on a Monday Morning, I exercise my hope of simple things and it's obvious that I have been in that space before. It's almost a comfort zone that I look forward to, even though there is a need for desperate change. Observation is used to draw the reader in, so that maybe they can see themselves.
11 AM ON A MONDAY MORNING
Peeking out mismatched blinds of my dining room window,
every day for a year.
I’ve become enchanted with two dogs
that encamp my neighbor’s unkempt backyard.
They chase each other ‘round plastic chairs.
I sit at my desk – the dining room table.
This old, shaky table that belonged to my Nana
reminds me of myself – imperfect with chipped edges.
Oh, the talks that have seeped into this table;
sewing clothes for my Barbie dolls;
listening to her favorite AM station in the afternoons.
I know that someone out there
is also using their dining room table as a desk,
listening to the same radio station,
and tracing a question mark on a yellow notepad.
Birds prepare themselves to fly south for the winter,
so that they can be associated with a more favorable zip code.
As my mood settles like thick dust on the window sill,
all I can think about is my dream of the past year – The one where I have matching blinds.
My neighbors are fictional characters in my stories,
even though we’ve never met.
If they only knew how significant they are to me,
I’m sure we would be friends.