Monday, you take the accordion out of its case in rain,
begin to busk.
Tuesday, you complain that the raito sauce with your hake
is far too garlicky.
Wednesday, you will be the boy arranging for his skateboard
to be tattooed with a skull.
Thursday, you will be a PA in a software solutions firm,
filing your cherry-red nails.
Friday, you gain consciousness after your last-chance operation
to beat prostate cancer.
Monday, you will be a gate-leaning farmer, watching tall wheat
ripen like bamboo.
Tuesday, you are on duty at the beauty salon, applying shampoo
to grey flimsy women’s hair.
Wednesday, you will be fitted with a spinal stimulator, if metabolic
complications have cleared up.
Thursday, you are a salesman picking your teeth as you leave
a small-town hotel.
Friday, you try your damnedest to revive stalled peace negotiations
with your fellow-envoy.
Monday, you joke with other widows about the man who calls
the bingo numbers.
Tuesday, you are a parcel-lumbered motorcycle courier,
jousting with gridlock.
Wednesday, you will block the undertaker’s lane, unloading
a consignment of veneer.
Thursday, you stack up cushions for a better view from the seat
of your adapted car.
Friday, you will attack bank e-mail systems worldwide
with your virus.
Monday, you bring the best case you can to the attention of
the sentencing review board.
Tuesday, you place yourself inside an orthopaedic corset to save
your back from strain.
Wednesday, your slow fast-lane driving is greeted with the kudos
of a two-finger salute.
Thursday, you know the acute pain of seeing the very twin of your slingbacks
at barely half the price.
Friday, you administer morphine to a doubly incontinent patient
in a dank public ward.
Monday, you will iron white shirts like a carpenter
planing a plank of deal.
Tuesday, you feel a cold coming on as you banter to passengers
on your tour coach.
Wednesday, you will broach the subject of a barring order
with your younger kids.
Thursday, you will change into your uniform before picking up
your guard dog for patrol.
Friday, you will wake up stark naked, wearing only
your lover’s arm.
Monday, you are a leotard-clad ballet dancer rehearsing
for Coppélia at the barre.
Tuesday, you are a car mechanic in a pit: dirt under skin,
grit irritating a graze.
Wednesday, you are the mindless old man whose happy release
his family is praying for.
Thursday, you will give birth to a child, smuggled like a refugee
under your tarpaulin.
Friday, you will struggle across the fairway, hiking your golf
bag like an oxygen tank.
Monday, either as a bank’s investment analyst or flipping burgers
in a fast-food chain.
Tuesday, the unsame ...
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