bad monday haiku ... it is monday, isn't it?

monday, i think, and
that's what happens when august
arrives. i read for

pleasure. i lose time
like sieves lose water--or more
like toddlers scatter

cheerios, kidscat
all over the coffee house
floor.  yes, coffee house.

not my house.  not my
office.  and this book in my
hand is my choice. what

day is it again?
ah yes--monday.  and that means...
i don't know. this is

what my brain is like
when it has had time to breathe.
the tension slips from

my shoulders; i slip
into my summer skin and
i nearly feel like

a whole person, like
someone i used to know.  i
am sitting at this

window, watching this
bee go from bloom to bloom, her
singular task an

effortless flight. an
hour passes.  my coffee
is cold. i don't care.

i am here. the bee
buzzes.  the book rests on the
table.  i refill

my coffee, feel its
warmth against my hands--monday,
i think.  august.  yes.