Losing Track

Once you are retired
(And there is no going back),
The days are interchangeable
And you keep losing track.

Monday feels like Friday
Or like Saturday, perchance;
You’re never certain ‘til
Upon the calendar you glance.

It’s slightly disconcerting
But it’s cutting loose, as well.
Each day is like another,
All the same and parallel.

A part of me still misses, though,
When I could really say
TGIF was reason for
A hearty hip-hooray!