The Truth About Tuesday

It's Tuesday morning, and I'm so much less invincible than I always thought I was.
The rain is cool soft surrender. Guess I'll soak it up because
I know that giving up is just giving up on a past that never truly was,
and Tuesday's grey memories are blurred, and vaporous.
And if I cast a bleary eye toward the future, my view is obscured by panic and baseless pride.
I see the foggy summit of Wednesday, but not down the other side
to Thursday's great success, or Friday's emptiness when dreams and truths collide.
They said there'd be days like this. I'd always hoped they'd lied.
Looking up from every puddle is the lowest of the low.
How fitting that my reflection floats on top of the mud and filth below.
Today I'm bent to broken by the thought of things. And I wonder, does it show?
Another look, another puddle tells me no.
So here I stand, cold cash in hand, to buy another round.
She pores me dirty bourbon, eyes the window, says, "Man, it's coming down."
I tell her, "Honey, you don't know the half of it." Then politely turn around.
And in spite of endless waves of ugly music,
in spite of every lip and tongue that's moving,
and though the weather has filled this room with every clown in town,
I'll remember Tuesday without a sound.