’twas on a Monday Morning.


A train delayed
A vehicle stolen
A plan that needs a rewrite
These are the things
That Monday mornings are made of.

The week ahead,
Lies told, like bells
At once cold
And burning like the seven hells

Of some forgotten text
Laying in stupor
In a cardboard box
Whose only identifier
Is: ‘c’est non fragile’
Which clearly nods
To my humorous youth
When days were long
And Dandelion and Burdock
Came as a shock
When Cola was my expected tipple
Of choice.

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