poem #17

often, on thursdays,
a vague sense of dissatisfaction with reality
is all that clears my way.
"humpday," they call it.
but who are they,
and why did i forget to bring a drink for lunch?
And what, exactly, does dissatisfaction do
for my tired mind,
and wait--isn't humpday wednesday?
yes? oh, well, then. never mind.

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