there are seven days a week: monday,
monday, monday, monday, monday,
after-monday, before-monday. i took
care of them all with just one stroke
of my waterman, and now quietly
tossing the wilted apples in the basket,
i try to see the wrinkles on the worn
face in the mirror, as a scratched record
on an old turntable fills a shabby room
with a crackling sound that was once
the music of one of the mighty five.
if only dust dancing in a single ray
of sunlight piercing through a broken
shutter could still sustain the illusion
of life.
hidden pilcrow 