Labor Day.

I'd left the stone bee-hive on the Western coast
gone to do my Sunday duties
at the pub, closing the place after they all left
like finely herded cats,
some of them in a morose mood
with the coming of a new school year.

Then, having made the transition,
I was off.  The birthday of a friend
to save me after my period of exercise,
an adventure in a new part of town,
the glitter of the new,
shiny restaurants through big bright windows.

And so the next day I wake
feeling like a fake.
I've cheated at too many things,
not done the suggested number
of push-ups and squat thrusts
in sixth grade gym class before
the laps around the hardwood court.
I took the easy way out, too,
of reading Candide.
I let myself get distracted
from time to time.
And what did I do
with my college degree?
You're supposed to go and teach others,
but I never did.

Shower hot and tea of green,
Chinese Skullcap, Astragalus,
and I've got the armagnac digestif
and the two tried wines on the way
out of the system, a lazy start
upon the day.
Where did we go wrong,
what can we do to right it?
Clean up your act.

All this stuff goes through the head,
and I fold a shirt, wedge it neatly in a notepad,
fill a water bottle and get ready for work again.
Back to the tin soldiers,
armies of bottles,
parade of plates
and tabled firing range,
ice bucket platoons at the ready.