Thursday nights we cull the whole damn lot or leave ’em be;
What remains of this week’s haul exhausts itself. At least
It tends to hit the sack a little early and as for me, it’s just past
Ten o’clock, when all that is is but doesn’t matter anymore. We’ll see
Some snags and hooks in all these hours till the magic hour tomorrow afternoon,
When what-the-hell is sent to hell, returned to sender as the cheque comes in.
For all that, sin and scales will tip so slightly, gratefully toward the weekend.
Thursday’s ripe for paying bills and calls for loose ends that soon
Stretch too far into the deficit of the night for comfort or written off without
A breath however token, howsoever small, a just little social elbow grease
To ease the list of “Things to Do” that clear, released,
A hill of sums to creditors and friends who bid to pout
Because they swear you haven’t been the same of late and called;
This Thursday’s what it is to reconnoitre weekly chits so easily dissolved.