This Week (a haibun)
Monday. I change the tablecloth on Mondays. It’s the African one this week. I watched a woman weaving it. On wooden looms. Meadow green threads. Beetroot reds. Crow black. Crisscrossed fabric. Monday used to be laundry day. Not anymore. Retirement. Lockdown. The hamper takes forever to fill nowadays. There’s just the two of us. I can do the laundry any day. Even on Tuesday. But not this Tuesday. I’ve a haircut. I schedule life so I’m not rushing about like first winter’s gale. No rush. Wednesday I opened the kitchen windows, and flies rushed in. Bluebottle. I hate the suckers. You don’t know whose pee they’ve licked, which sheep’s bottom drew their attention. I’m not sure what happened to Thursday. Came and went. Unnoticed. Like an old overcoat hanging on a peg behind the door. But I always recognise Friday as being Friday because it’s rubbish collection day. It’s god’s curse if you forget it’s Friday. Or worse yet, you think Saturday is Friday and you put the bins out a day late. It’s a feeling like catching the wrong bus home. Nothing worse than a week that travels east in order to reach west. It’s like a poem that mimics cigarette ends.
turn another page
days & weeks link into sentences
a weed gone to seed
for #socs Stream of Consciousness Saturday, include the word “wee” or any form of it. Image is from unSplash cc:00. ©Misky 2021