Sunday School

I never went to Sunday school;

my weekdays are self-taught. 

I often think

of Wednesdays

the way they used to be: 

Kindergarten library trips,

the smell of hand 

sanitizer and juice-stained paper,

scented chapstick

and stickers pulled 

off too quick,

showing their white

paper guts below

the doodled surface. 

Nostalgia!

The chummy, slimy bestest friend

of the pathetic and the weak. 

I never could stand liars. 

I was born

on a Thursday,

which I find,

frankly,

unforgivable.

Thursdays are too round,

too soft, Thanksgivings

and fat uncles.

I evade my birthday's 

reputation

to the best of my ability,

with meals at a minimum 

and clothes hanging

loose. 

I'll admit, I have my vices:

I often miss commas

and the color blue.

I'm forgetting 

how to smell,

or the way

things tend 

to smell. 

On Tuesdays,

I do nothing at all

and on Fridays I circle

and on Saturdays

I cross my t's 

before retiring 

for a week or two. 

All the rest

I proudly can't recall. 

I've yet to get to Sunday.