Monday’s glacier looming
before our unsuspecting ship—

Tuesday’s sparrow hawk
light as a dancer’s toe tip
grazes the plush tree top.

Wednesday’s work belt
dangling from jean loops
sports its ruler and mallet.

Thursday’s parade
marching on endlessly
holds together with soldiers
and brass grommets.

Friday’s saddle and spur,
the roped calf, thin lariat.
Friday’s the rodeo
and we’re mounting
our fastest horse to ride

into Saturday, and I am
Saturday’s child
taking up space
at a leisurely picnic,

but the day, like dust,
vanishes into the fatherless
stadium of Sunday.