Shade of Mondays

by Gordon Purkis

The lover is a filthy beggar caught in a place between two times: the past where he makes his mistakes and the future where he imagines not making any more, forgetting all about the present where he sits between bacon and two eggs on the sunny side and add to that a side of hope and a tall glass of wishing - that he could figure out how to never fall down again.

The lover is a poor excuse for a lover. He is a shadeless tree, a shadowless sun. He blows without wind, doubts without rain.

The lover is a wistful wanderer, a duck stuck out on the pond of self-awareness. His dictums are matter-of-fact-somes at times, and always, his careful lines drawn out like a poet no one knows about. He waves at beauty and never strays from the bottom-line contrition of his top-shelf heart.

The lover is a constant waverer, always never sticking to his guns, wishing he even had a gun or the gumption to load it and wield it and not yield to his ultimate fear of any kind of conflict whatsoever.

The lover ought to take a stand, ought to appear somewhere upon stage, be a paramour or a parakeet or just get one thing straight and have a nevertheless spine instead of a provisional heart.

The lover never doubts that he has doubts. He is found in his waywardness, stable in his restlessness. There is never a situation that comes his way he can’t take personally or decide is a social or political issue far beyond his control. Heat makes him cold, rain dries him out.

The lover makes all kinds of plans and never reaches any of them. He is devoutly irreligious, exceedingly underachieving, minimally maxed-out. The lover is always searching for a prophet he can disagree with, a savior he can dispute, a referee who calls it squarely in the other guy’s favor.

The lover turns on many lights and expects others to put them out, will gladly let his love make dinner and complain about the menu. The lover is a saintly devil, a card with a missing deck. The lover’s smile is an upside-down frown.

The lover seeks constant oblivion in the quiet pavilion of his thoughts. The lover thinks the world a caustic court in which his every desire is objected with contempt and where he is repeatedly found guilty of wearing his heart on his sleeve and otherwise behaving contrary to the nature he was told was his.

To the lover, the secret is his only salvation, but he is totally unable to keep his mouth shut about it. Public opinion sways his privates, he feels he does continuously without and little does he know his life is not even his own to give or forsake.

The lover is in as much awe of God as the Devil and can seldom discriminate one from the other. He is a peach and a pearl, a preacher and a churl. The lover constantly cares about how his car is parked and scratches and dings are things of woes, worthy of odes.

The lover is a windowless widow, a paramount tantamount, the ultimate penultimate.

The lover is an eccentric Elvis.

The lover is a shapeless shadow, a depthless form, a creature that willingly crawls on all fours, knows no reason to stand, cares not to smile and can find no reason to feel safe and secure.

The lover hides alone behind walls and thinks that others can see him, prays and strains at thinking, hoping a telepathic thought could travel from his mind to the heart of his intended desire.

The lover is wholly torn-apart, perfectly broken, surrendered and conquered, victorious in defeat.

The lover is a heavenly demon, a sinister hero. The lover is disturbed if not in crisis. He assumes everything and verifies nothing. The lover twists other people’s arms and cries in pain. He lives a historical fantasy, a factual fiction.

The lover lies on his back looking at stars but doesn’t believe in them. He feels distances make things unattainable and therefore unreal. The lover thinks it’s a small world so why travel. The only things that matter are those that are brought to his beside either by charity or obligation.

The lover is a low tower, a high valley, a seeker of bad things in good.