*Ogni pensiero vola
How many poems
love Mondays?
Do any of them laud
the week’s overlord,
strum a bard’s mandolin,
raise a tenor tone up
towards a stony window
where, instead of a maiden
with perfumed tresses,
leans out an old ogre?
“I’m Monday,” the ogre says.
“And you are a goofy bard.”
He tosses down a latte.
“Now go do some real work.”
