Tell me, how was your day?

from by Garret Potter

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about

Recorded by Mike McGee. Produced by Mike McGee and Garret Potter.
No, really; tell me.

lyrics

Tell me, how was your day?

How was your day?

Was it marvelous?
Was it decent?
Was it “meh?”
Was it depressing or refreshing?
was it filled with boredom or trepidation or elation?

Tell me, how was your day?

I mean it when I ask you,
that’s why I’m asking you.
It’s not just some phrase or a sound,
some “tsss” or “wfffh”
It has meaning, like the story you are living does to me.

Tell me,
how was your day?

What was it like?
Was it sunrays or moonbeams?
Was it dark clouds or cotton candy stars?
Did it serve to you a foreclosure notice
on the door you had not realized was the lid of a present
not a promise to be taken for granted?
Did it share with you its flowers?
Did it buy you flowers?
Did it leave a love letter under your windshield wiper
for the tenth time?
Did it stalk you,
maybe creep you out a little?
Okay, a lot?

How was your day?

Did it hold your five year old hand and walk you across the busy streets?
Did it lovingly brush its hand on your cheek?
Did it feed you a bountiful buffet of exotic fruits?
Tell me about the mangos? (I want to know about the mangos!)
Or did it only share with you how deprivation feels
as even your stomach acid is at your throat, screaming out of loneliness?
Did it serve you chocolate?
Did you share some with the stomach acid?

No, really,
how was your day?

Was it a blanket of friends,
their smiles like fireworks,
like glass cylinder light bright bulbs
coloring today pumpkin orange
or lemon merengue school bus yellow
or lip stick lounge dress red
or the purple of nursing home curtains
(or at least an old lady’s church hat)?

Or was it ceiling and walls,
only the windowless nothing of certain ceiling and cubicle walls?

Did you awake on satin and feathers to touch?
Or did you awake on concrete, drenched in urine, maybe not your own?
Did you wake alone, the worst way you could have asked for this morning,
on a used mattress, impacted by the gravity that your body represents?

Don’t just tell me about the monotonous things you did.

At least tell me how monotonous they were
with passion!

I want to know about your day!
And if you are the only person I ask this question to
and I get some sort of knee jerk response,
I might be likely to think,
“Well, that’s lame.
I’m not going to be asking that for a while.”

No, tell me, how was your day?

Did you fall in love?
Did you fall out?
Hit the ground,
not running? Running?
Did you go for a jog today?
Did you pray? Did you worship?
Did you masturbate?
Do you plan to?
Did you curse? Were you cursed at?
How did it feel?
Did you create something?
Did someone use you?
Did you lay down?
Do you anticipate being used before the day is over?
What would it take for you to say no to them and yes to yourself?
Did you stand?
Did anyone tell you that you can?
Did anyone offer to help? Hold? Listen? Love?
Did you hear, “I love you?”
Who said it?
How many times?
“I love you.” “I hate you.” “I’m sorry.” “Forgive me.” “I love you.”
“I love
you.”
Who did you tell?
Who asked you about your day?

No, really,
when I ask I want to know.
I mean, what if my day had been lifeless
and the only life that I got was the life that you shared with me?
Share with me your life!
Tell me how was your day?
How do you want it to finish?
To go on forever? Or never more?

If your last glimpse tonight is a 12:34 AM alarm clock glowing,
or open starlit sky,
or into your lover’s eyes
then let your heart and mind collaborate to whisper a silent thank you,
“Thank you God,”
gratitude.
If your last goodnight is blurry—
water upon tear stains
or as lonely as it began—
only a white and blue Facebook message box…
if it is to me you are typing,
know that I’d like to ask, to share, to know,
How was your day?

Ask me back.
(And) maybe I’ll be there too,
no longer alone,
to say,
“Thank you
for asking,

I had a great day!
And you made it so.”

credits

from Context, released October 7, 2013

license

all rights reserved

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about

Garret Potter Ann Arbor, Michigan

Garret Potter has come from nine states and Japan to find himself a familiar name in the international Poetry Slam community. He is cursed with consideration which he has learned to turn into gifts: heart-pounding, mind-delving inquiries and observations on vulnerability, community, and sustainability—poems. He likes moments with new people, movies, and food, old friends, books, bikes, and forests ... more

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