Monday’s Lover

Friday night whispers
in soft coos of seduction
spill their spells in the mind
with kisses to the brain.

Chasing that voice
down a dark alley
to weekend secrets
and throbbing dreams.

Blending into Sunday night
their vibrations fading,
their moans dying in the blackness.

But dawn summons
vision seeing Monday’s light,
until she rises in you head,
screaming every detail
you want to forget,
finally hitting you in the stomach
with boxing gloves of regret.

Too late to stop the blows
for they are a knock out
to the conscience and will
like other weeks of being
a punching bag for guilt.