Monday’s Mediocrity
By Caitlin Berg
The sympathy, empathy, I give
For a cat that just isn't real;
He hates Mondays, eats food,
And the punchline repeats
endlessly, one void of purpose.
Viewing the value of life
through the lens of something inhuman
and undaunted… besides Mondays.
The repetition, the stale
air of the newspaper in hand,
He is looking back.
I am turning the pages endlessly,
Tearing so easily. I can’t say it’s
honestly worth a life to live
if that life is dry, gray,
much like the morning paper.
The orange cat,
at the core,
Is simply nothing.
Is that not apparent?
I can’t imagine waking
Monday after Monday,
everything bleak
but comfortable.
Recognizable face but truly
Discontent with care, attention, needs met.
Aren’t we the same, really.
Confined within the comic strip, unwilling to be something more.
Existence within 3, maybe 2 panels.
Garfield, a symbol of nothing.
Lidded to lidded eye. We read each other.
I turn the next page. Unable to end.
Do you think lasagna
is even his favorite food?
Or is the safety of repetition,
the safety of void,
Preferable to the alternative.