of mondays
I’ve had many
some gone before
I woke –
took the paper
left the puzzle worked

burnt my favored candle
and cursed the grain of wood
became the bed –
one night
became my all

I’d never leave
no sense pretending
I would sell
these ragged sheets

who are you
and where’s the magic now

silence
makes me want to cry
laughter makes me horse
for helpless I am moved
to keep it all –

a dozen eggs
and one pound more of bacon
I won’t eat

twelve across
is not the word intended –
but everything
I love
has made me fit

. . .