Everybody’s Working for the Weekend

I Prologue

To some of us, this land is still a land of Saturdays

and I am making my way
as best as I can,
just like the rest, all across the fields
all amber and vermouth,
slyly smiling, tired and retiring for the day,
under a windswept sky.

It’s an end to party-hopping, a farewell to great huzzahs,
you can hear the torrent slowly fade
to chattering, the chips grown stale and old,
becomes a mumble as the rubber of your soles sticks on the floor,
down to a whisper, the creak and hard knock of a door closing then shut.

There is the voiceless tap and shuffle, followed by the sounds
that still remain: the sharp and sudden pop of bone and sinew
as we toss and turn, trying to settle down. What a Saturday.
What a lovely shuffle, ending an aimless carefree day.

Through my window at night come the lights and sounds
of quiet city streets. Amber vermouth slow fades to blue
as the night ends and I sleep until another lovely Saturday
begins.

II Passage

You miss it, moment by moment.
Like a background hiss on a tape of a tape
or a tape of a tape of a tape.
You can’t see it, whipping your line of sight

quick to one side, trying to catch
the faintest glimpse of the back
of your head.

That’s when your glasses go flying.

Green to blue to violet.
This is how our Saturdays became Sundays.
The watch that I was wearing lost five seconds every hour.
All our clocks, as it turns out, slowed two minutes every day.
That is how our Saturday became, one day, Sunday.

III

I never minded the smell of death in there.
It’s not that I can’t care, but I won’t.
I understood from the first that Wilbur had to die for my ham sandwich.

A red and black and blue of downcast eyes and misspent youth
has come at last to stake his claim;
down here it’s our time.
It’s our time down here.

Our Saturday is Sunday now. Our Saturday is why it’s Sunday now.
The green and black were violet inside. They built the blue and red.
It’s Sunday now, so put the bottle down.
This is a war; a war you have to be sober to win.

The sense of violation [is not the smell of death]

(and there is a sense of violation)
is the disjoint, fracture,
a total lack of order

It’s that I can’t stop them taking my children’s toys and their children’s
clothes away. And I can’t understand this. And I can understand everything.

Today’s the day we finally used up all our Saturdays.

My birthday is November 2. It’s also St Crispin’s day.

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