Not even six AM
and it already feels like
one of those days.

One of those days
you will look back upon
a few days later
and shake your head
and say it right out loud:

man, that was
one of those days.

And of course you
will know what you mean,

but someone listening
will misinterpret it certainly
and think it was an angering day
or a saddening day

when all you will be trying to say
is that the day felt stale and familiar
from the beginning, yet another day
like all of them had been lately,
and it was neither
a good day nor a bad day,

just one of those nondescript days
where you could have tossed it from a window
into a dirty pile of similar days in your back alley
and ten minutes later you’d be unable
to distinguish it from the others
despite the fact
that it had just happened
and it ought to be fresh enough to stand out.

If you tried to explain all that to that listener
they would be bored and walk away muttering.

If you tried to explain it to yourself —

how you came to have
such a monstrous pile of boring days
piled up out of sight of everyone 
behind the facade where you live —

I think you’d stop talking,
choke on words, eventually scream.
You would scream into a pillow,
into a closet, into a glass or a mirror,

thus completing
yet another one of those days.