Monday

The morning was really unappearant, true as seen through the eyes of the fine, small, cross-eyed
child who wandered the streets, hands in his pockets. The Mondays don't often count in the
schedule of others, and people may wander regardless of themselves through them like animals
and sweat delicately around the handles of the briefcases. And at last, on Tuesday, sitting calm and
secluded your bed, you begin to tug gently at the toe of your sock and reminisce all at once over
your painful Monday. Often associated with concrete. Most don't see the Monday as it houses them.
There is a snatching, of course, of seeing some clock in a tower once emerging from the train or
perhaps and animal peering at its wondrous group of spectators with a blind-eyed knowledge. Only
on Wednesday, though, are you truly aware of the scamperings that took place while Monday
hugged tightly to the world like a mother.

The cross-eyed boy labeled the days beginning on the tips of his fingers which were stained with
the rose pulsing of his blood and extending often into personalities. Mondays, as he saw them, were
mustached and bulging with information and knowledge to be acquired, somehow, and often
walked importantly, chests heaving and fingers clasped around something invisible, in front of his
blurred field of vision. His pupils dilated widely, he sat down on a crate in an alleyway, read the
bottom dizzily. It had been used for coat hangers once. His teeth appeared on his face, in a grin
haphazard, and he smiled that the crate was being used for himself now.

Tuesdays were burning with something, not sure what, a sweet-smelling purplish wick of the week
melting only slighlty through a candle. The candle was broad, thick, smothered generously in oils,
and at its waxed bottom lay something you might take away from the week at its finish. Maybe on a
Sunday you'd remember a discursive conversation concerning a pair of sunglasses in a china shop
that, by God, just happened to be selling sunglasses. This might strike you as beautiful, and the
unabridged jumping from subject to subject to aspect of the tinited pair of sunglasses will bring you
nearly to tears in its eloquence. A wide grin might spread across your face as you remember that
this pair particular drooped, tear-shaped, in such a way that your eyes were surrounded by
something both almond-shaped and brilliant. And, staring bemused at a squirrel searching human-
like for something it had lost after you've been dispatched from your train, you would remember this
pair of sunglasses.

A vision encircled the cross-eyed boy's head. In one day in one week his eyes would set
themselves, plaster-like, straight. He held his finger before his face, and biting his lip comically, tried
to deliberately focus on his finger. The thing came as a pinkish shape, yet an outline rose
diaphanous from it. It was still Monday. His head met with the concrete, and he studied the series of
tar cracks surrounding his feet. These were bird-like in shape, though not altogether skeletal, but
rather smooth and full as if with a rubbery flesh. Some of the lines were jagged and others
indifferent, coming as they'd like, and one snaked under his foot, dotted with discarded chewing
gum. Perhaps this was someone's job, to create tar designs in the sidewalk, to illuminate the
darkened blue-grayish stretch of walking path everyone's eyes gazed upon on Mondays. And he
counted this on his finger, jotting it slowly in his mind, as though when his eyes regained themselves
he'd remember it.

Wednesdays are not often thought about and when they are it is by savants. There was a child once,
his body tea-stained and he wore sweatshirts often declaring things and palces, universities. His
shoes were like vehicles, small water crafts in the way the emboldened his feet in dark blue, and his
eyes were barely seen at all and the cross-eyed child had thought once that it was the large face
that had been descirbed to him, but the boy was small-eyed.

When the child's birthday came, things happened. Unwillingly, a quiet grild moseyed the room and
asked what everyone most liked about the savant. Most said he was nice. Few proclaimed that he
could glow in the dark. The savant was deafened slighlty to this himself, his lips wet with the saliva
he often likced them with, and he sat solemn, his mind whirring, thinking of things and facts and
creations and people and beings. And when he heard people had said he'd glow in the dark, he
didn't see his arms emitting a neon green and his eyes alight with something altogether bizaare, but
he saw himself a prodigy, saintly, halo encircling his body. And this brought a smile to his face that
rarely came, and when asked his favorite day, he became stolid and answered, hands clasped, tea-
brown, yellow,

"Wednesday."

Cross-eyed child sighed, the heavens seething and absorbed in their own unsure seizure of
reddish- brown. The Monday was dissolving as though orange-white potassium into a glass. Lifting
himself from his coat-hanger seat, his hands safely in his pockets and unseen by even himself, he
began to wander again. Endeared by something welcome, a grand-rhytmic end to another block of
time, was also something dismal. It was unfortunate. Monday was a worthwhile day.