![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj62hyphenhyphenpGnDIQ8uPCW_DrX3Dw7YWWty_4FybpqI8yOvKM1lf0lOWAH-bq3d1WCVXAD7H5ieN0fkW7URxvB1TkOn_zC7W0cvCWYjloqP5ruIG17VyIZLOG5LRIopimI4yA4i-Z3HPAhG7XMc/s200/Wednesday_main.jpg)
I’m just sitting around
being foolish when there
is work to be done.
Just a hang-up call
and the quiet breathing
of our Persian
we call Cajun,
on a Wednesday.
So we go from year to year
with secrets we’ve been
keeping,
though you say you’re
not a Templar man.
Seems as if we’re
circling for very
different reasons.
But one day the Eagle
has to land.
Out past the fountain
a left by the station
I start the day
in the usual way.
Then think
- well why not -
and stop for a coffee
then begin to recall
things that you say.
No one’s at the door.
You suggest a ghost
perhaps a phantom.
I agree with this in part.
Something is with us
I can’t put my finger on
– is Thumbalina size 10
on a Wednesday –.
So we go from year to year
with secrets we’ve been
keeping
though you say you’re
not a Templar man.
You tell me to cheer up.
You suspect we’re
oddly even.
Even still
the Eagle has to land.
Out past the fountain
a left by the station
I start the day
in the usual way.
Then think - well why not -
and stop for a coffee
and begin to recall
things that you say.
Pluck up the courage
and snap it’s gone again
I start humming
‘When Doves Cry’.
Can someone help me
I think that I’m
lost here.
Lost in a place
called America."
Tori Amos, Wednesday.
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