Quotidian

Nobody writes songs about Tuesday.

No one dreads it,

no one counts the hours until it arrives.

It does not wear a costume

or carry the weight of beginning

or the particular grief of ending.

It is not Monday,

that necessary villain,

everyone’s excuse for a bad mood.

It is not Friday,

performing its own relief like someone

who needs you to know how hard the week has been.

Tuesday just shows up.

No fanfare.

No apology.

Like a person who doesn’t need the room

to shift when they enter it —

who is, in fact, suspicious of rooms that do.

When I was a kid,

Tuesday had the best television.

I didn’t know why then.

I know now:

someone at a network in a tall building

understood that Tuesday night was its own country,

no holiday,

no competition,

just people who came home

and sat down

and were ready for something good.

Tuesday is the day

the work becomes less about starting

and not yet about finishing.

It is the body of the week,

the part you actually live in,

not the threshold

and not the door.

I have always been a Tuesday kind of person —

not the one you brace for,

not the one you celebrate,

just the one who is genuinely,

quietly here.

The one who does not need a name for it.