this week, this holy, beaten week
nails TGIF to my tongue;
even with the crowbar leverage of my faith,
prying,
I can’t manage to say it.
no, not in a month of Sundays.
I’ll thank God it’s Friday
every other dirty work-week sunset,
but this coming gross solemnity
steals my voice
and fills my ears with afternoon thunder.
how can I keep from shivering?
when I tally all my unpaid sick days
and on-the-job injuries
and workplace harassments
and the other smaller crucifixions
that cut into my barely living wage,
I’m sorely tempted just to quit.
but on this longest of weekends
I remember that the work has just begun
and the same hope that rolled the stone
rolls up my sleeves.
Then I’m back at it again
fully compensated next Tuesday.