It’s Monday morning.
Eight o’clock.
Prepare to pound the pavement.

Reluctant feet shuffle along the sidewalk.
Out through open doors waft the perfumes of java and danish.

Gotta get downtown.
Gotta pour some coffee down.
Gotta somehow make it through the day.

It’s Monday morning.
Dreary-eyed and dazed,
the work-a-day world drags itself into the week;
drags its bones out from the weekend.

You’re walking the line.
It’s not too late to close your eyes
and be back in green peace and soul mending.
But it’s Monday, and the weekend starts to slip away.
By this time tomorrow mid-week will have gained its foothold
and the morning mind will already be full of office plans.
The city beat will have you believing its pulse is yours.
You’ll be pacing down caffeine drive like you own it.
You’ll be feeling one with the racing clock, thriving in the game.

Work time.
Deadline.
Get to the office well before nine.
Punch the clock. Wave to the boss.
Turn on the computer. Papers to sign….

But for now it’s Monday morning.
You have five more minutes to relish its tenuous touch.
Five minutes
then the weekend will slip away into a dream
and you’ll wonder if it ever existed.

Pamela Jean Holm
Salt Spring Island, BC 1998