Monday Is the Human Heart

Is there anything more
Peculiarly human
Than a Monday morning?

Wholly arbitrary
Space in time, meaningless
To all other species,

Unnecessary slice
Labeled out of seven,
A set of conventions

Only humans follow,
Not even all humans,
Not even a rhythm

Of sleep or embodied
Likelihood—accidents
Of fate, falls, or ill health

Are not tuned to Mondays.
People die on Sundays
And other days as well.

But here it is, rumbling,
The surge in commuters,
All the news, busyness

Rising up through the dark.
We invented Mondays
All ourselves, bless our hearts.