Days Are Driftwood

I woke up
this morning it's Friday.
Yesterday was Tuesday,
on Sunday
I was a child.

My days are driftwood
lost somewhere
in the stream
around the bend
down the road from my house.

I swam in it once
as an awkward preteen,
mostly knee high;
at the end
I remember a waterfall.
I stood in the downpour -
thought about the water
pulling down my skin
to make me longer,
stretching me out
until I became the length of the stream.
That was two days ago.

Time just trickles
along with the current,
your life tide
ebbs and flows until
you open your eyes
and it's your last day
on earth: it turns out
to be a flash flood.

Next Wednesday I'll be in the ground,
but Thursday I'll be back.

I turn over in bed
and it's Monday again.
Where did the weekend go?