HUMP DAY 

You may have conjured demons that whirled
about your crouched and praying form,
have shattered glass
on your own cosmic steam,
have mesmerized, first, the cat, lastly
(driven to his knees),
your very best friend,
spun Japanese lanterns,
stirred currents in an auditorium
with simply a subtle inclination,
and beyond all parlor tricks, looked into the very
eyes of your dearest wife and seen her soul peer out,
tentative, reluctant, dazzling,
seen beyond question the absolute perfection and
permanence of every living thing,
imperishable, everlasting.
But it will not help you past the aftermath, the 9 to 5,
wresting the groceries, the rent, the car
will not help you past HUMP DAY,
Wednesday, unassailable obstacle to a tortuous slide
toward the shortest weekend
imaginable,
and all of it, all that purity and power will be opaque,
remote,
diffuse, less than a memory, a purposeless visitation,
when an old man tells you that his impending death 
is a troubling,
awful mystery, for you have lost the means
to respond, 
and simply summon a few odd cliches -
JOHN, THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS DEATH.
CONSIDER THE LILACS.
HOW DID WALLACE STEVENS PUT IT?
THAT'S IT. A WAVE, INTERMINABLY FLOWING
(knowing your own demise will be terror, flat
hard going.)

- David Swartz

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