The Tuesday Feeling

It's always 2 PM when I find it —

the particular weight that Tuesday has,

the way the office empties and the blinded

light goes flat against the glass

partition. I look up. The ceiling tile

above my desk has a stain

in the shape of something. It's been a while —

years maybe — the same

shape every time. I only look

on Tuesdays. I don't know why.

Not Monday's dread, not the cooked

exhaustion of Thursday. Dry

and specific. Like a name

you keep almost remembering.

I've sat in this exact same

2 PM too many times. The thing

is — I never name it when I'm in it.

I look back at the screen.

Tuesday goes on, one minute

at a time, and I mean

to figure out what it is.

But the afternoon passes. Wednesday comes.

I forget it's something. It is

what it is. The ceiling just becomes

the ceiling.