Sisyphus Throws a Hissy Fit



Sometimes
on Mondays
I resume a close examination
of the rounded surface.

If I look closely enough
I’ll find a hidden flatness
a spot just flat enough
to hold this mass in check.

By mid-week
my eyes are more sore than my back
my certainty has become desperation
or resignation
or ambivalence
or rage.

When rage is the flavor
I push more quickly
efficiency abandoned
goalless
brutal.

By Sunday
my breaths are labored
yet, I always waste some
tossing them aloft
into the void
beyond my hill.