BEB #13: An Ode to Monday Mornings

by Liz Cregan

Alarm goes off,
of course I ignore.
Then a loud bang
(my phone fell on the floor)

I roll out unhappy
and very confused.
Did I have homework today?
Was that blog post due?

Turns out it was,
eight hours prior,
but it’s the first week of school
so the situation’s not dire.

Doesn’t matter now,
as my idol would say:
2004 JoJo:
“Too Little Too Late”

I can’t find my glasses
and there’s a mouse in my Nevil’s.
But it’s another day!!!!
Not today, @Devil.

My weather app glitched
so I throw on some jorts.
Turns out it’s literally snowing
and so I abort.

My roommates all laugh
as I amend my look
and walk to my class,
having not bought the book.

I’m an English major,
so my mind often roams
in in-class discussions
as we discuss poems.

Number of unread emails
Higher than my I.Q.
Yet I continue to ignore them
(Jay Gruber, you too).

As a junior I feel
as though I’ve adjusted well,
but now Leo’s is fancy,
Leavey confusing as hell.

I meander with my backpack,
nostalgic for the time
when CAB Fair was exciting
and didn’t take years off my life

I’m so old now,
a SWUG a year too soon,
feeling sorry for myself
when I see this sight and swoon:

A bulldog! I screech
but hold myself back.
“Is this just a normal dog,
or is this actually Jack?”

It is him! A miracle!
You don’t understand,
I saw him last 2014
when I first toured this strange land.

Jack the Bulldog, I thank you
My mood is now brighter.
Even as I almost fall down Lau steps,
my smile, it grows wider.

I was abroad (if you follow me
you know—my posts were not subtle)
but the Hilltop’s the best;
I’ll hear no rebuttal.

Monday’s are ok
when you hang out on O
even when you’re a Texan
and react poorly to snow.

And on these countless gray days,
you shouldn’t feel blue,
especially with cardboard cutout
DeGioia watching over you.

I want to end well;
I want my voice heard,
so I will finish this poem
with some crucial last words:

Wisemiller’s Deli
has the best coffee selection
& never forget the time
two sandwiches won our election.



 

Michele Dale