friday

by John Grochalski

hands stinking
of bug spray

countless cockroach deaths
on my conscience

head heavy with
the burning embers of the past

wallet emptying
for the guy poison
of misery, courage, and salvation

road kill faces talking
dead letter words
in suicide offices

cancer sun boiling my flesh

and the smirking calendar

has the audacity
to tell me that it’s friday

as if i haven’t
been waiting

for that lazy fucker
to come all goddamned week

and show me
a little bit of mercy