And on the third day
He rose
And feeling only slightly
the worse for wear
He ventured out
into the world again
“What day is it?” He asked.
For, verily,
somewhere along the way
He had lost Saturday
And He discovered that it was indeed Sunday
and that in his stupor
He must have slept through Saturday
“I have risen again,”
He told anyone who would listen
And He danced joyfully
on the garage forecourt
as ice melted
and rooftop water
fell upon him
Bernard Young Poet 