MONDAY
Every day is Monday
it began to be blue
after Independence Day
the telephone was shut off
and the cat ran away
then the first day
began as a wish day
the next Monday
became a love day
not unlike the laundromat
where we met
to chatter away
and stared into the wash cycle.
Could that be us
and I began to think
every day is the last day
and I became dependent
on Mondays
not just to wash
my clothes and yours
it was only a preparation
for denuded night
and when Monday appeared
I could not wash away
my memory of the Monday
when I first knew
the everyday without the blues
that Monday would sing me
to sleep and now
it is every day that is Monday
for the cat returned
the telephone was fixed
but we could not speak
till Tuesday.
—from Rattle #22, Winter 2004
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B.Z. Niditch: “In thinking about my passion for poetry, I remember back to the mid-1970s, when I wrote what I considered my first ‘serious’ work of poetry, and sent it off to the magazine Poem. To my delight, as well as good fortune, the magazine’s editor reacted very enthusiastically, and chose to publish the piece. I suppose it was that first exhilarating feeling of acceptance and recognition, the sense that my writing might move others, and even ‘make a difference,’ that helped fortify me artistically, and propelled me to keep writing and publishing.”
