Tuesday comes like clockwork
Without a tinge,
the lightest blush
Of skin the glowing colour of delicately french fried onion.
Wednesday follows obediently
And i feel
The surging rush
Of a sense of living at the very bottom of a dark, dismal canyon.
You shout out on Thursday
In that peculiar,
Gold-green-ringed,
Spiralling, laughing, wondrously mocking timbre.
You are a Fridetonation
With a glowering radius
Leaving me lightly singed
And touched by the sauteéd love for delicately french fried onion.
