by Noah Craig

A man sat on a bench, and I,
Having fifteen minutes to kill,
Sat next to him. Not being shy,
I ventured to ask where and why
His travels yet took him to still.

“Why I travel is that I must,
For this is it. The only way.”
He squinted, “It was either bus
Or walk for it is move or bust
For me. I’m heading to One Day.”

“I’ve never heard of such a place,”
I said, searching maps in my brain.
I glanced at my clock’s weathered face.
Time enough. “Before you give chase,
Give me a sense of the terrain.”

“I’ve never been there, but One Day—
I hope—is different than most.
I don’t think it is like Monday
When everyone wishes it’d stay
As far as tomorrow at most.

“And I don’t think it is Tuesday,
The hangover of Monday’s chore.
It is certainly not Wednesday
For middles are all dull and gray.
On arriving, I’d say, ‘What for?’

“It can’t possibly be Thursday
When tired bones all start to ache.
I know for a fact that Friday
Is not it for Friday delays
Hope, sours milk, makes soon plain late.

“Maybe One Day is Saturday,
A woodland breeze by a blue pond.
But I have a feeling One Day
Will actually be Sunday,
And of those I am rather fond.”

“Sounds quaint,” I laughed, “What was the fare?”
“Cost me everything I’ve got.
But more Some Days I could not bear
So I’m headed for One Day’s air—
For now, I just live on the thought.”

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Noah Craig currently resides in Corvallis, Oregon. He loves to ponder the wonder of both the natural and the spiritual.