Days are now used up before the morning. 
You wake up more tired than last week, last year,  
more distanced 
from a meaningful conversation and a sigh of release, 
deceitfully profound

The rising haze misuses all blank spaces between tall buildings 
and sticks like wrong answers,
blatant yet difficult to rub out 
even by afternoon or the next day. The city is a sepia landscape, 
all sky and fog. You think through such thoughts and you sense 
a Thursday is grappling to wake up
in its weekday clothes on a gloomy morning. 

You think back. Your Moandays, Tiresdays, Wailsdays. 
Though they all have same faces 
as in a queue in front of an ATM. 
All silent. Like strangers with urgent memos of life in hand. 
All blank. 

Though you know your own good. You have started to feel 
comfortable in this routine of lull 
and liquid limestone fog
You wait for something good, may be a little better 
than this. Like a new haystack sun or the smell 
of an extra ripe orange or lime pickle 
Some week, some month, some day. 
Not far away. 
Like everybody else. In the queue.