Monday Mornings

You spend a week or month or year
In silent desperation’s clutch,
Unknowingly assuming much,
And thinking you are done for good,
Unless you do a thing extreme,
A thing you’ve seen the others do,
But never have you yourself done,
Or even thought of doing once,
But now you want to try it too,
So, Monday morning, you go to
The local Shiva temple door
And touch the bull – its rump or hump –
And say your prayer to its ear,
And walk the way to where you touch
The phallic blackness to your head
And say again your prayer pitch:
You give me that, I’ll give you this,
And walk away, a tray in hand,
A tray of offered fruits and leaves,
And offer them again at home
To members of the family,
The ones for whom you went to pray,
The ones who do not care for God,
Or maybe do when crises strike,
And you convince your faithful mind
You have to have to do this thing
On every Monday following
If _really_ you want to have
Your prayers answered earnestly,
And that is how before you know
You end up starting Mondays all
By touching rumps or humps of bulls
And touching phallic blacknesses
And making barter contract pleas
That come to pass on rolls of dice,
Or not at all, or all at once,
So there is no real telling if
The things you do have causal roles,
And so to err on safety’s side,
You continue to do your thing
On every Monday following.

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