We have re-named the days of the week

in our house, to more reflect the times

we have become accustomed to experiencing.

The months as well, have undergone change,

but instead of March to

whenever, they have been designated

as before this crap went down, the first upward

curve has become when we chose to be stoic,

and anytime since is now, I can’t remember, was it last

week, or back when June was actually a thing.

The moments between the hour are reserved

for the ticking of the breaking news,

the early bong

of the hour wrapped around kicking off

the light hours with an album of choice,

followed by the correspondent from

Stourbridge keeping the nation

of number nineteen up to date with

the occasional gardening

and weather report, all good today.

Monday, that elusive child for many

has morphed into bed-linen day, named

after the Roman god, sweaticus nomoreicus,

Tuesday, voted overwhelmingly

the two sitting members of the house, is spent

in a vacuum as dust day takes its lead,

Wednesday given the moniker of losing the

Will, Thursday becomes exciting

as I plan for the feast

of Friday, bins, and the ache of

aggressive mopping,

Saturday remains special, Full English day,

to counterbalance the bong and boredom of mueslie…

And Sunday, where we be without giving thanks

and veneration due to the god of nodding off,

falling asleep and waiting for the chimes

of midnight, of whatever happened to 2020.

Ian D. Hall 2020