AT LAST ONE MONDAY

Eternity begins at last one Monday,
the day that follows hardly has a name,
then comes the darkness of the abolished one.
In which familiar murmurings are hushed,
the face we loved begins to fade away,
and hope is useless, no one ever comes.
Eternity ignores our sherished habits,
it does not care for red or tender blue,
but fervors gray, and smoke, and simple ashes.
Name and a date you might engrave on marble,
it brushes them aside in negligence,
no little mound of bitterness remains.
And yet, you see, I closely cling to Monday,
and call the day that follows by your name,
and with my burning cigarette I write
across the growing darkness: here I've lived.