Regret

of silly things said

on a Sunday,

some Mondays,

grips like a buttoned-up collar and

makes it hard

to enjoy the things

you force on yourself

(like singing Haydn's Mass in the Time of War at Old South,
on a whim)

because

maybe something whim-like will

blot some of it up,

but some Mondays

it still

cuts you off at the windpipe,

and at the same time

fuels even more memories of

wasted time,

and then you think

the next time

you won't waste your time.

But you did waste it

this time,

like you have in the past,

when you said you wouldn't

the next time.

Good times,

indeed.