Opening and Closeting

The lights of a nightwise Friday
shine like those of a Saturday.
Perhaps it is Saturday.
It is impossible to know.
As far as Friday goes,
it is gone.
Steadfast: it is Sunday
and I have Somewhere
lost fifteen years.

In a dream this certain Sunday,
up and down the stairs
by Dover Castle

and I wake there.
Plain sun and cloudless rain--
the pleasant kind
when it warm, yellow.
Monday morning with the great Gatsby glued to my palm;
he will not come off.
Oh give me wind!
and I will be a happy sailor,
a seaman so crude the Culprit dare not follow,
breath so foul to fall the moon;
Tuesday dead at the stink.

But it is fresh,
my arm, racked by a jig
and tuesdayfuckingwednesday.
"'Yes, Highballs,' agreed Gatsby."
Wednesdayfuckingthedrunk
and I am drunk again on Wednesday Wednesday Wednesday.

Home Gatsby!
Home on Thursday, the shower's running.
"'It's the funniest thing, old sport,' he said hilariously,"
"'I can't say anything in this house, old sport.'"
"'Look here, old sport,' said Gatsby leaning toward me. 'I'm afraid I made you a little angry this morning…’”
With harm, no foul.
Four days, Gatsby.
“’The poor son-of-a-bitch,’ he said.”