Monday mornings
taste like Aspirin:
a bitter pill to swallow
violently kick-starting the working week.
A day that's delivered
via clumsy breach-birth
by a drunken midwife
with shaky hands
whose breath stinks of cheap scotch.
A day that's marked
by the sorriest clean-up operation
as the wasted gilded wrappings
from a promising weekend
are collected and
badly recycled or
disposed .
But at least the sun is shining.
Ashley Lister
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