Mondays they leave early, surprisingly -
Or perhaps not, given the unholy row.
There's a note on the front door -
"Back soon, don't do anything too active."

The weekend hangovers help him obey.
Not the predictable drink - that's later:
Narcotic punishment against poisoned disability -
But habit it is, formed in careless decades.

One could regard Tuesdays
As peaks of activity: hyperactive fog
In a slow-motion waltz around his desk.
Or maybe you're thinking of pea soup.

Wednesdays and Thursdays
He has learned to expect surprises:
Any time from noon, a warm smile
Strokes him on the shoulder

And as he turns, some sort of liquid
Drowns his whimpers and pushes him down.
Wednesdays it's early and acid;
Thursdays too late and alcohol.

Fridays they leave the door ajar -
For his escape, not for visitors.
On occasion he succumbs
But has to return for punishment.

Poplars and beeches, clearly gossiping,
Turn wide-eyed towards the moon,
Whistling innocent lies
Each time he pauses to eavesdrop.

Most don't notice Saturdays.
That's fair - nor does he.
Unlike the burning telephone.
- That's intensity, then anger,

A period of indeterminate squinting,
At brightness or from blindness,
In which the search for gold
Is replaced by tarnished fireirons.

Then there are Sunday evenings:
Clock and conscience march through the door,
Insisting as they block the television
On immediacy: rules are rules.

Only once smothered do they stride off,
Failing to realise every week
That he has forgotten how
And sits in a mistaken examination.