Like spiraling a spatula
round the bottom of a
peanut butter jar,
so am I each morning
in a futile attempt of
scraping in hopes of a
slather of meaning on a Monday.
Why is the wholeness
divided into seven daze?
Does a heart beat me, ever?
Are there breaths beneath me?
When do steps become strides?
I lick the spatula with gratitude,
wave it like a wand,
and pray for grace and mercy.
For every day is Monday, really.
Gerald the Writer 
Thanks for your time and thoughts.