Tuesday’s Quiet Leftover

Tuesday drags behind the fog of Monday,

a damp umbrella left sagging wet on the bench.

The bus stop hums less loud, less urgent,

a few faces masked by gray scarves,

moving slow as rusted clocks.

A flyer crumpled in a puddle, edges curling,

date circled in a tired hand,

forgotten like a whispered promise.

The city breathes in low,

a rhythm stretched thin by routine,

a single cracked umbrella—

a quiet weight

that only Tuesday knows.