Blue is the colour
Turn the newspaper pages and pray
For something better
Playing blind dates on Trade Me Jobs
For that winning ticket to a
Dreary, as five o'clock melts into six
Mashed potatoes, a palmful of vegetables
And some undercooked meat
Devoid of inspiration
Dread, that cloaked entity
Sits watching by the clock at the bedside
Futile glances and prayers, more prayers
That the numbers on the face will fall off...
This is the blues
Every Sunday without fail
That nagging itch, knowing tomorrow starts a new week
What to look forward to?
Soggy sandwiches at noon
The same conversations, the same lax grins
Tired jokes, laughter punctuated by cigarette smoke
And that longing
No longer for payday but Friday
And a whimsical chance to sleep in.