This Synesthete Week

Monday is blue, but sometimes with black.

It swirls, seething, refusing to be caged.

Then Tuesday, it simmers, turning pink or maybe peach

Like a salmon, leaping free from yesterday's troubles.

Sometimes there's a hint of yellow, but it's still too early

For the sun-tinted sandman, he doesn't come until Wednesday.

But then he dissolves, plummeted into the raging depths

Of a purple Thursday, punctuated by spikes and sixes.

Until we emerge, gulping for breath, red-faced

As child of five, we're no longer troubled.

The brightness of a Friday, its unafraid hue

Before the weekend passes, plunging us back into the blue.