Friday in B-Flat

Death becomes my Friday
and it is not yet
midnight.
Even greatness takes a wayward walk.
Exhausted by vagary,
I count the time- only to lose count
again.

Not a thing new under the Sun.
Nothing new under the Moon, either.
It has always been-
will always be.
I am an interloper.
Do not belong between these
intertwined worlds.

The rotation goes on-
but only I
am left dizzy.
Senses askew.
Bereft of understanding when
or how
or why
they blend
in skin.

Astonished at the appetite-
I toss some meat in disbelief.
Feed this volatile hunger.
It gnaws off my fingertips.
And I barely notice.
Closed mouth gaping with
words of regret.
I need this day
to be swallowed by another,
more forgiving one.

Death becomes my Friday.