It’s not really Thursday unless it’s Thursday, but 7 o’clock always comes ten minutes early. And it seems like bathtubs drain faster than they fill when you’re waiting. Rooms become dark before the sun has its chance to disappear into the plains, And the grass doesn’t always sway, it’s often pushed by the wind. But then it’s Monday morning, and I’m searching for $4 and change for coffee, Before I realize the months that’ve passed since I called my cousins or my grandma. Dolly Parton plays when I put her cassette in the decade-old stereo, Then my mom smiles without showing her teeth. Kitchen towels are thrown onto the carpeted living room floor after I spill my wine, And she laughs about it while I saunter drunkenly behind the couch. The red apples on our kitchen table will rot before nights like that repeat themselves. And soon, dreadfully warm sunlight will warm the floors of the living room, and it’ll be Saturday morning.
