Tuesday

Nothing happened on Tuesday.

The coffee was fine.

The light came in sideways

like it always does

when the sun is low

and unsure of itself,

cutting across the table

at an honest angle.

I read three pages of something.

I put it down.

I looked out the window

for longer than I meant to.

A bus went by.

The 47, the one

that goes somewhere

I've never been.

I thought about going.

I thought about putting on shoes

and walking to the stop

and just getting on.

I didn't.

I finished the coffee.

I washed the cup.

I stood at the sink a while.

Nothing happened on Tuesday.

No letters, no calls.

No moment where the sky

opened up and said something.

But the light was there.

The honest sideways light.

And the coffee was warm.

And the cup fit my hands exactly.

I keep Tuesday anyway.

I keep it folded

in the back of something,

with the other good ordinary days.

The ones no one asks about.

The ones that hold you up

when the bigger days

come crashing through.