A day so rich in mundane sorrows ought
To have a better name than ”Saturday.”
That name, in this case, should reflect
The scars I bear from my campaign
To rid the yard of devil's club.  It ought
To, somehow, indicate that, when I started
Making dinner, I chose a too-shallow pan
And had to transfer what I'd made to that
Point to a larger pan.  It should commemorate
The chunks of onion, and of capsicum,
Garbonzo beans, and pre-cooked pork
Which found the floor and not the pan,
And it should subtly celebrate
The separation from my nails of half my
Fingers, and the searing pain which always
Comes with that.  To give this day its normal
Name is to sell short the wretchedness
Which marked these truly awful hours.
Call it “hell” or “death foreshadowed,”
Not just “Saturday.”