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Monday Night 

 

     I

 

The day having wasted away, he slumps

in an easy chair, his labors seemingly

amounted to rubbish. Tonight he feels 

subdued, quite pooped as he cowers under

the big shadow of corporate compliance.

He kicks back and pops open a beer,

lifts calloused feet onto the ottoman,

relaxes, and yawns as the moment rises

and then falls without notice.

His wife lurking in the living room

watches sitcoms she doesn’t care for,

afraid the lazy bum may get canned, 

and then what would they amount to?

Their souls may tell them it will be alright,

but when the money runs out hopes expire.

 

     II

 

He’s certain that out there possums 

are mating on white sands of finality.

He shuts his eyes in order to connect 

with fond memories of their wedding dance.

It was a time before the fire between them

was extinguished, their problems still solvable.

Cherubs chirped then, and church bells rang.

Lollipops tasted dandy, and cracked sidewalks

seemed smooth as maple syrup on pancakes.

Now they both suffer from indigestion,

the mortgage is way overdue, and his beer

has gone flat sitting on the coffee table.

Meanwhile she’s run out of channels to surf,

and neither is a candidate to accomplish much.

 

     III

 

He feels somewhat like the event horizon 

of a black hole from which there is no return.

He mumbles a few sentences to her as he reads 

the daily paper, but she doesn’t listen,

distracted by post menstrual syndrome.

At times their thoughts are dead on arrival,

and indecision regularly alternates

with systemic anxieties. Their ambitions like 

seeds planted in salty earth refuse to sprout.

They wear blue jeans with holes in them 

and drive a car with worn-down engine parts.

They can’t come up with any other choice 

but to slog ahead, non-participants in their

doleful indifference, any truth beyond what

they can touch and taste way out of reach.

 

    IV

 

Suicidal tendencies appear on a daily basis.

And it’s not as if they’re on some noble quest

to free Palestine, wearing belts with bombs. 

Manifestoes like eating, sleeping and talking

don’t make much sense. They act as though

magicians are playing peekaboo with them, 

taunting their psyches. His inner voice says

take ten paces to the left and reach eternity,

which would doubtless dampen the sting

of those issues that plague him the most.

But he’ll never approach this elusive eternity. 

She embraces pragmatism, somewhat inclined  

to advocate a constructive end. For in the end

the beginning, or so she thinks Robert Frost

said. Upward to darkness, downward light.

 

    V

 

They cannot defuse shrill voices that cry out

in the night. She dreams dancing a fandango   

on a giant polished iridium mirror, romancing

a throng gathered at the crown of creation.

He struggles to exterminate those visions 

of heaven that he concludes must be spurious.

They both fantasize cosmic factories wherein 

stupefying monsters are pumped out in droves.

Their attempts at sex are about as satisfying 

as paying income taxes. His ego is on sabbatical,

and hers continually probes the caverns of death.

A ship at anchor is battered by a stormy sea,  

their weightless spirits pacing upon its deck.

An unexpected quietus arrives as they walk

their slinkies down steps to the basement.

 

    VI

 

He deduces there must be a lion awakening 

while a purple satyr serenades him outside 

his bedroom window, dancing in the shadow

of a black sun, perhaps product of a quasar.

She nods on and off while listening to AM  

radio and darning socks. He projects himself

collecting galaxies in a tote bag. She might

be accused of welcoming her grim demise

when one takes into account such lethargy.

No-one should be surprised that feral ghosts

attack their minds like lightning, or that 

the holy grail seems to them a dead myth.

Having faith would only get in the way,

he reasons, so refuses to read the Koran.

And if he did it wouldn’t make an impact.

 

    VII

 

For him the simplest of activities are enough.

The lighting of a cigar, hogging the couch,

surviving a nightmare to wake into the light 

are his rewards for toughing it out. Otherwise

he might as well go ahead and end it all. She 

not to dwell on such boring topics as mortality

will mope around in a moo moo, stuff her face

with savory pies, play pinochle with herself.

When he walks crowded city streets or peruses

stores at the shopping mall flat broke, he feels

totally anonymous, shunned like a download

containing a virus. And to think in their youth

people would remark at what a lovely couple.

He’s become bald and arthritic, and she flabby,

perhaps all there is to what’s called destiny.

 

    VIII

 

They remain incorruptible in the eyes of their

peers, which isn’t saying much because those

whose hopes and dreams are so sparse are in

denial that humanity is purposeful. Even though 

magnificent echelons of joy, pride and ecstasy

loom within the grasp of anyone who would seek

them, they remain resigned to a fate in which they

view themselves as victims of a massive disaster.

Although their cute kitten rolls a ball across 

the kitchen linoleum, it offers scant solace.

There is enough pressure built up inside 

these two to make them explode like a boiler.

One day their ship may come in, but don’t

hold your breath because you’ll turn blue

as they contemplate returning to the womb.