Abigail Bokun

If Mondays never had to come,

If mornings woke up with melancholy drear,

If my feet touched the floor with barely a pad,

If only to trudge down the hall and let out the cat,

If mornings shifted from early noon without a change of clothes,

If plates and cereal bowls lay on the counter

Forgotten in the slump of the day.

If afternoons would elongate, and evenings never show;

If sunlight drowned one room

And left the other in sultry silence.

If sketchbooks smudged the line

'Tween daydream and reality,

Sketches of faces and places

I may never know.

If Sundays repeated themselves

Forever and always

And Monday never had to come.