friday

friday is the colour of fish flesh
and smells of too many prayers
half thought out during
smoke breaks, lunch breaks,
whispered against white walls
of toilet cabins, without ever a reply.

friday tentacles around us
with green arms, clamors
downstairs into our dreams
every night, every night
until one day we wake up
to find it sitting by our bedside,
twiddling its thousand thumbs.
 

Michaela A. Gabriel
Vienna, Austria