Wednesday, you lie down in a heap of woolen blankets
soggy with dew left in bushes by the homeless.
You are the color of the lingering overcast,
your clouds stretching uselessly over the cold ocean.
Neither beginning nor end, you loll and flounder
over the middle: smug, confident, well-meaning
but a boring lout, your waistline expanding on the sofa.
You don't have to hold the two ends of the week together
by compromising your principles, the ends have already,anyway,
been glued to this earth.
Your yawn stretches from here to the bottom of the sea.
Get up, will you? But it’s ok.
Rain, soon, will start to seep from the bottom of your clouds
But which is, like you, actually beloved.