You are my Wednesday.

You are the metal clang,

And the slams that echo in the alley

At six in the fucking morning.

You are the sour, dour odor

That sighs over the neighborhood.

You are all the things I don’t need

All the carrot stems and fish skins,

And salted tissues.

You are on your way out

But you will be back in a week

To take more things from me

That I decided I don’t need.