though it was Thursday still
the black Thursday
when Judas was counting his pieces of silver
but you knew-it-not
and would not have cared, anyway
you would whistle like it was Sunday
every day
making wide pirouettes
in too narrow a world
just like your grandma once had taught you
in the asylum yard
you kept on whistling
unbothered
airs split on your shoulders
you kept counting craftily
all those seconds since your
parting with me
‘t would be late
if I stopped your endless counting right
now
tomorrow
or some day
but I will come to see you every year
whistling like it’s Sunday
while it is
Thursday
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