friday

friday's full of coffee, cup upon a cup, finishing the sunday paper,
finally, to the end, and there are young smiles, born in '36, making
time with little stories, rags from days i have forgot, boys

who never knew their fathers, pups for sale, or give-away,
cooking eggs with runny yellow, waiting for the bells to call,
there are 2 chairs at my table, piled with books and clean

white socks, dinner plates are on the counter, chipped cause
ruffy wags his tail, and i wonder if the mailman will pass my
garden gate, leave me magazines come far from home, offers

that i never can afford, maybe country songs from nashville,
films from paris, france, something cousin jimmy might have
sent, but should i save some part for saturday, sad stories

from the town, a page of jokes and silly drawings, puzzles
with a literary flair, and i'm counting down the hours, til my
favorite sunday morn, and i love the smell of windex, clean

the house from top to door, shine my locks and chains, test
those fire alarms, and lordy, what a clamor they can make;
friday morning leaves me curious, what is it that i did,

yesterday?