The day does not care what day it is

The day does not care what day it is;
the sky was as blue
on Tuesday as on Friday afternoon.
A warm breeze caresses the tree branches
causing them to sway and dance
to music I don't hear.

The day does not care
that it was the first week of school
and we want to say it’s fall:
it’s 91 degrees
the day says, "it’s summer still."

My body says, “I’m still tired,”
but I have to get up now.
The day says, “Come out and play,”
but I have to work.
My body says, “I’m hungry,”
but it isn’t time to eat.
“Pipe down, body, and do my bidding.
We are on a schedule.”

The day does not care what day it is
yet I live by these constructed notions of time
of month and day and hour—
these boxes that determine
when I get up and when I go to bed
regardless of the sun’s whereabouts
regardless of my body’s rhythms—
and feel surprised
somehow betrayed
when the sun shines Monday through Friday
and the weekend is gray and rainy.