Toast crumbs fall to the floor
looking like ants, or aunts.
It is only Wednesday.

When you come
I will no longer be here, or bee here.
Buzzing in my ears does not alarm me.
Now it is Thursday.

I am not what you wanted,
and it pains my soul, or sole.
I kick off my shoe and it kicks back.
Friday is here.

My back will be sore, or soar.
Flying is the only answer.
Saturday has come, and it is not yet too late.

Mother does not agree; it is always that way.
She says look at the big picture, or pitcher.
I am thirsty. It is Sunday.

Over time I have become more like myself.
I reach out to grab my son, or sun.
It burns me that it is Monday.

Green seems like an answer I can live with.
If only you knew, or new.
I am getting old.
It is already Tuesday.