It’s today, Wednesday
Like every other Wednesday
sitting there, harmless, in the middle of the week
Hiding its true importance
(It’s trash pick-up day
and recycling day too.)
What good happens on a Wednesday?
It just seems too ordinary
nothing special happens on a Wednesday
just another day on the march to the weekend.
Weekends are a privilege, not available for those who serve
food and drinks
and those who usher patrons to their seats
at movies, and plays, and concerts, and weddings.
and those who sell us the things bought
but not needed
the loot of retail therapy.
Wednesdays have no such privilege
if you work on Wednesdays
If you don’t (that means you work on the weekend?
Or don’t work? No privilege for you.)
Not this Wednesday.
No one plans Happy Hours, birthday parties, big games
Nothing on Wednesday
(especially in the South – it’s church night)
It’s just Wednesday.
a dull ache of the week
not strong enough to need relief
but not enough to not be noticed.
Who writes poems about Wednesdays?
Just poets who desperately wait
for the weekend.