It's Tuesday Tomorrow

The Sunday after the night before:
he’s a Coinstar user,
a change from the man who normally has the money to buy his kids the gifts they demand.
It was Valentine’s Day yesterday,
I saw him early on when he was having a short, back, and please hide this mole on my forehead please:
a haircut on Valentine’s Day is the worst day to get a haircut out of all the days to get a haircut ‘cos the room smells of new deodorants and Paco Whoever million cologne,
and the Tresemme gently plodded around the sweep-clean rink,
pushed to the back because the chap next to him asked if he could have Head and Shoulders instead of that other TV crap
and in the mirror sat test drive deodorant boys- it’s Lynx Africa still- planning their road trip evenings, a special Valentine’ Day jaunt up the M1 like everyone else
when in reality it’ll be: house, to pick up, to pub, bar and club, home, her home, door closed in front of him ‘cos she didn’t like his haircut,
and now he’s sat having a haircut he doesn’t want on Valentine’s Day,
getting notes on the linear notes of life by a vocation man who could easily slit he neck twice if he disagreed with his choice of cookery cable channel, disposing with his body almost instantaneously so to get back to the salon for late night opening Tuesday,
and he's sitting in a room of other single parent single lovers trying to mingle in with the rest of the muddle,
and now it's Sunday and he's swapping change for notes in a Sainsbury’s entrance hall off of a ring road
south of his kids who just want their dad home for the day after Valentine’s Day,
and tomorrow is Monday and he’ll be up again
to try and gross enough tips to buy a rose nursery for this time next year
with the rest of the idiots who class 7am as quite late in their day, actually,
leaving on the first train out of there
after spending a miserable 20 minutes with their supposed loved-one in front of ITV +1’s catch up Take Me Out re-run drinking a Fruit Shoot because you’re allergic to red wine,
just about making it to work at 9,

or 20 past 9 because another misfire Challenger had a disaster leading them to explode into 18 individual puddle-pieces of live-outside-broadcast in front of a £48,272 windowscream because their Valentine didn’t get back to them in time with a reply to a text sent 4 years ago.
It’ll be the end of Tuesday soon before he sits back down
and exhales.