“Wait, it’s only Wednesday. The fuck?” — MED
A friend of mine posts on Twitter
their dismay at the week crawling slowly by
with a single line,
“Wait, it’s only Wednesday. The fuck?”
that seems somehow to add a title,
an honorific, to the dread weekday name.
I develop in my head the image of a tapestry,
a medieval rendering of the cheap and elegant
Wednesday The Fuck, Ruler of
The Slow Lands, Head of The Legion
of Digruntlement, riding a bony white mare
through their domain as we peasants kneel and mutter.
Let’s face it: Wednesday IS a fuck. Too far from
last weekend and also too far from the next.
All Wednesdays ARE fucks. They sit there
on calendars waiting to be filled with Tasks
and Events that will keep us miserable
till we can boot scoot on down past Thursday,
get moshing on Friday, rave on through
till Sunday afternoon and the next go round.
Monday bears all our moaning while patting us on the shoulder
all day; it remembers our recent joy.
Tuesday mainly hurts us by taunting us about
what’s coming tomorrow right up to the moment when
Wednesday the Fuck shall ride again at the head of
columns of bland, deadly, We-Got-Shit-To-Do soldiers,
seeking conscripts to those miserable ranks.
Don’t do it, I say to my friend. Don’t fall under
the fucking spell of Wednesday the Fuck
and become old and bitter about time;
just keep on getting through it. Time is as arbitrary
as — well, as Fuck. If Wednesday needs to be overthrown,
we are the only ones who can do it.
Let’s plot the revolution right here, right now,
and start with Wednesday, which can’t even spell its own name
without adding extra weight in the middle — the fuck?