PLOT FATALE: MORRIS ALWAYS DIES ON WEDNESDAYS

[MORRIS ALWAYS DIES ON WEDNESDAYS]

Each poem is a gun

Loaded with blanks

Most times

A long shot

In the dark

At ghosts

Shadows from too many Saturdays

Slowly bleeding into dull nothingness

Sundays blur

Mondays fog

One-eyed Tuesdays

Target dry sentences

Wishing it were Friday

It’s Wednesday now

Lengthiest day of the week

A heatwave’s never-ending tongue

Stretching beyond the dying sun

Soft egg words hard boiling

Falling off incandescent terraces

Failing to hit solid mind ground

Solid anything

Apprehending nothing

A new month

Just as empty

Morris doesn’t care anymore

. . .

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