Tuesday Poem: Ode to the Workaday Beer

But the Holy Bible does not wish a working man with hands callused
from the till of the land nothing but goodwill,
does not wish long weary shadows
trudging through the evening sunshine nothing but rest,
does not say that dusky Mondays should
find barstools sleeping on smooth tavern slabs.

Overrated, Mondays leap restlessly
As if to jumpstart inertia, the city
crackles like the business end
of a fake Cuban cigar; Monday comes
tumbling in like a disrespectful second cousin.

The chime of 4’o clock is where the day work docks, simply say, the day ebbs, stretches, lapses into its actual mode,
the attitude of tired housewives before Librium, before paramours,  before redemptive divorces.

The day staggers into a bar for beer
because the Holy book does not wish a
working man nothing but bliss.