I.

In Monday's mail a letter came

from someone 'a ten years ago,

from a Monday I do not know,

asking me to guess the name.

Now have I style?" it said,

a voice, a face? I've tried."

This is the Monday it died,

one postage-stamp its head.

II.

Thursday was a monument,

a year-day vertical

on the month's extent,

set up for the habitual

parade, cards, flowers,

the costumed ceremonial,

and my speech. It takes hours,

and went off rather well.

III.

An accident arranged for Wednesday, or two or three,

by accident was changed, and all meant for me.

Things made things late, my own timing was wrong -

some fumble of fate.

But it made Wednesday long.

IV.

Thursday the marine biologist,

schooler of plankton, fathom, fin,

lifted his useful, noisy wrist

in the pleasure of hammering tin.

What shapes not fish might he wreak?

I sent my mind into his arm,

I learned in the muscles of his neck

what any Thursday could perform.

V.

Friday was mountain and money green,

Wreath-green, apple, golf-course,

corn, pool-table, and dragon-green,

sleeve-green, sea-green, jealous,

spinach, and snake, and salad green,

pine, willow, algae, and glass,

leaf, bird, and memory green,

Friday-green, green as books and grass.

VI.

There is no Saturday,

and Friday crowds

the stores to a Thursday

week-end. Monday no goods.

Old age is middle age,

even middle age is old,

at the narrowed edge

of the shoppers' world.

VII.

Sunday is a should-be,

and a last chance for summing-up,

and Sunday could be

a communicance,

a brimming-up.

By an old precedent,

Sunday is misspent.