Sarah Daly/Metaphorest You are the little apocalypse in every week The small death set to the scent of roast dinner You are the worst day for worriers Scholars and sloggers sport sick stomachs feeling five days’ weight on slumped shoulders pre-playing the pitfalls ahead Forward lookers fret while backward glancers count missed chances in their weekend window Sunday, Where the present-dwellers lounge in slippered feet whiskey-sipping, daytripping, relaxing, basking in a day of rest While the rest of us grimace in the vice Stuck tight between wasted time and the production line - the treadmill and the trampoline That it’s now too late to jump on Sunday, you are the nostalgic dread the post-pubescent hangover the associations accrued, Pavlovian, over decades You are the ominous opposite of Friday night morbid mother of the septet You are the heinous host of that deep down dread that says: ‘it’s time for bed’
Posted on: Sat, 03 Aug 2013 23:28:53 +0000
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