Monday walks like he doesn’t want to.
His blood is pure coffee,
the bags under his eyes, 5p at Aldi.
Tuesday sees an open door, walks into the frame-
reacts five minutes later,
interrupts your conversation with pointless crap.
Wednesday is the optimistic one:
“Keep going! You’re halfway there!”
(Everyone wants to punch her in the face.)
Thursday would go out for a pack of cigs,
listen to their Wallowing in Self-Pity playlist,
not come back to their wife and kids.
Friday is in pyjamas,
smells of pepperoni pizza,
is quite the master thief in Skyrim.
Saturday destroys their liver, “What the hell!”
She wears cheap perfume
that fails to mask her sweaty skin.
Sunday bakes cookies for Mum because,
“She was looking a little pale,”
the white dove of the group.