M is for mundane;

as much as a Monday could possibly be,

this slow dripping of the clock ticking,

I can hear every second whisper

as they mould themselves into one another

lasting more than they need to,

laughing, stopping, mocking.

M is for meetings;

where I exist in the parallel worlds of words

that don’t touch each other as we sit around a round

table with chairs and faces and laptops and zooms

moving mouths and making sounds

these floating heads that seem to be alive

at this and for this

M is for move,

can a day walk into tomorrow?

glide into another week?

rush into a better moment?

(while the tables, chairs and glass windows hold down the walls of time) can there be a movement from a stilled moment

away from this mundane?

M is for Marlboro milds;

my mother made me promise not to touch

those damn things but if the day

has to move, there are but two choices –

and one of them is the dark smoke of slow death

which is probably still faster than

this slimy, slithering slowness.

M is for murder,

the other choice that seems ridiculous?

who would I even drag a makeshift dagger through?

Time cannot be killed; floating heads do not feel

and mother did not make me promise about murder

but I hardly think she would approve,

who would I kill anyway?

I’m sorry, though, mother.

These mundane Monday meetings moved me to choose ________.