Mythology names the days of the week,
yesterday was Monday, based on the moon,
today is Tuesday, based on the god, Týr,
how Woden became Wednesday, not from Greek,
of course, but Germanic sources, the name
lifted from Old Norse, Óðinn, rough hewn
old codger, a frenzied nature, to stir
giant cauldrons with bubbling broth, a brew
yet imagined to drink and drive insane,
never forgetting Thor and his thunder
as Thursday storms through ancient sacred groves,
muscle and strength, the might of his hammer,
ever present after humpday, in droves,
spitting camels walk the desert, pass through
the eye of the needle, until Friday,
hallowed as the halls of Fensalir, Frigg
eternally dwells as our morning star,
desired as Odin's beloved wife, bray
as a donkey at play, for we are free
yet obliged to pay homage with a sprig
splayed sprightly on a lapel sleeve, not far,
of course, from a beating heart, for we live
freely to make merry, a shopping spree,
to take our minds off work, making money,
how we labor, while we get the weekend
entirely to ourselves, unless funny,
wonders never cease, managers befriend
endless workweeks with more labor, we give
everything of ourselves, while Saturday
kills Sunday, Saturn castrates ocean spray.
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