It begins, whether we want it to or not on Sunday night, anyone
who tells you differently is a liar. Even for poets pledged
to peace, the start of the week speaks of war, startles
the horses in their stalls. Nostrils flare as they too sense
the straps of breast plates snapped into place
across the kingdom and face after face tries to hide
the wince at what might be out there, the wise
try and ready by singing fear to sleep. But it won't stop
the clock and before you know it is time to step so
Mind your Mondays, no matter
how well you prepare you will be
caught unaware. You will rush
to show up and be in the wrong
homeroom, just re-group, go on,
let it blunder by. Bluff it out,
you can be tough without
being too rough. Be like the butterflies
in the meadow on the way home
from Grama's. They have no ears
or blood pressure evidently: they let
the state police practice without blinking,
let them take aim against future villains.
Bullet after blasting bullet volleys
across the valley, but the bugs don't pay
any mind at all, just flit and follow
their own paths, tasting pollen
through their feet, passing it on.
Some say ignorance is bliss like its
a bad thing and it can be, but it is also
necessary for concentration and sincerity.
It is true I do not want to know when
the bullet leaves the chamber, I might
flinch and forget to finish what I've started.
You shoot your way, I'll fumble along
at the locker door of this armory whose
only ammunition are my fingers and everything
could still work out fine.
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