Tuesday’s child
hasn’t met all yesterday’s
breakdowns, yet.
Sunday’s child knows god
to be just a collection of images
lost in electricity and its attendant sorrow.
Monday’s child
is just too weak to weigh
what can be lifted from Saturday’s slumped shoulders
and laid to rest.
all the other days lie barren,
bent backwards and in pieces
belying the peace that could be known
if only we found the recipe for rectitude,
the (moral) code that unlocks all those parental doors –
society is a mother,
but not for dayless children,
not for dayless children,
not for
the limp and livid,
the sorry and slutted,
relentless, ruined,
crazed, craven
broken, rebuilt, broken again, rebuilt again, broken againrebuilt,
society is a mother,
but not for us.

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