The peace of Sunday afternoon is broken
by inner panic at the hateful thought
of Monday-bloody-morning, looming now
across that dreadful Sunday eve horizon.
Defences can’t be built to keep the march
of Monday morning back; its dark, relentless
onslaught of woe creeps ever nearer. Sunday
receives the stark transmission: nearly Monday.
This weekend started out which such high hopes;
such keen anticipation at the words:
“It’s Friday afternoon and after that
it’s Saturday!” But both have given way.
A weekend dies on Sunday afternoon,
and standing on her ashes are the countless
dejected souls of everyone who works,
whose only comfort is the sadness Sunday brings.