This man, like all other men, and women too,

(at least the ones not lunatic nor dying)

needed a future to take with him

into his Tuesday morning

(like his grandfather with gray felt fedora,

or grandmother with clayish armor

of red, red lips). 

And this man’s future

was bright and geometric and excellent,

like the images that come

if you press your thumbs long enough

onto clench-closed eyes.

After every Tuesday, a Wednesday and then Thursdays 
all ways

after that. 

“Wednesday,” says the lunatic,

“or more precisely Wotan’s Day –

or if you like, Odin’s Day

is a dead-end day

for the Tree-hugging, one-eye god,

who, you know, gets et finally

by hairy Fenrir pups

or an en’dragon

or some such monsters of the God-Dusk.”

This man laughs, with his

bright and geometric and excellent

future. 

This man in his Tuesday morning.

This man.

This.