when is thursday

it is the apocalypse

though it is only tuesday

feet sloppy with sweat

standing

pajamas slinking at five thirty three pm

there is an infant yelling behind me

there is always an infant yelling behind me

arms slope with booze

i should’ve gotten a shopping cart

it was busy

i was going to be quick

day smudges inside

not a cloud in the sky

i thought there’d be thunder and trumpets

there was only a girl behind a counter

smelling of flowers they will put at her funeral casket

asking if that was all

i drank the beers sometime later

not really filling up

not emptying either

another day sludges in

it shouldn’t

but it is all it knows

hungover there on the horizon

spilling its insides out onto everything

and yet

not enough