Tuesday, love is blowing in the wind, answers floating, gliding towards a destination preordained, destiny in a word.

Raspberry apples, strawberry onions and a groomed gentlemen, wandering, wondering, lost.

Wednesday, train is plowing across the platform, people scurrying across the stairs, up through the aisles, riding, rushing this hour towards a desk, a chair, a phone, a never-ending universe within a screen.

Only to turn around and ride home, to an empty chair, with a table and a universe emanating from a 35 inch screen.

Thursdays are kind days to the younger folk, nights of dreams and dances filled with songs and drink.

Fridays are pulsating and alarm clocks ringing, across the town the streets are littered with remnants, proof of the previous evening’s revolting movements.

A long jump and wiggle, called dancing. A soft song reminds one of the soft dance from a hundred years ago. When war stared down at 17 years old and death was knocking at the door with a letter and a flag.

Saturday… Sunday… Monday.

And open door, no welcome mat, just an open door, the sounds of laughter and an aroma of coffee.

I am here, do you know who I am?

A poem for a Tuesday, it feels like a Wednesday, a wish it were Saturday.

I am in need of a smile and some currency, some love and some realization of some hopes and dreams. Read my words, I want you to read my words, the words reveal me more than my eyes can ever dare.

Read me, see me, understand me. 

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