After the war they must have wished
to count upon planned things.
Monday, washday; Tuesday, ironing.
Wednesday, I don’t quite recall or
Thursday either. After all I
was a child. Friday was
fish day and I hated fish.
My job was polishing the family’s shoes,
all seven pairs, on newspaper
queued along the kitchen table, except Dad’s.
He liked to spit upon and buff his own.
Each Saturday I did this, before weekly bath.
The duties of each day would grow
to habit written in the bone. It was good
to know the happenings ahead of time.
We children grew to think the order
was inscribed somewhere, in stone.
Not all, but some like me
vowed secretly to do it someday otherwise,
though we weren’t sure what otherwise
would be. Sunday was church, old relatives,
roast chicken, and ennui.