Three Days
Sunday weeps through soggy gray tissues
Into a basin of Don’t. Flooded with failed
Promise, it spills across the fallow garden
Where Love sprouted, but refused to bloom.
Wednesday sighs nakedly from atop the sunken
Mattress of Can’t, where she goes through
The motions of rumpled and twisted covers.
Love builds but finds no release in her arms.
Friday’s flirtations are pregnant with a promise
Of Won’t. As is her wont, she plies her puns
And innuendos into receptive ears. Love stays
Buried, knowing it will sprout next Sunday.