saturday

being
released
normal service
to be resumed
when the minutes
have gone un-clocked
and the hours without end
sneak past midnight
till dawn is
broken

being
abandoned
by its daily grind
the timetabled morning sun
goes shining through its noon 
and wanes away to sunset
when the partying night
reels them dancing
into the pinhead 
small-hour
lights

being 
some time
before midnight
before every other
breathed word slurs
from excitement to regret
before passion spends
its last coin on sleep
and oblivion brings
the soul comfort
and darkness
on the road 
home

© BH, 2020

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Was it a day of freedom or another form of subjugation. School and work made me think of it as an escape. Later, I’ve come to think of it as a form of deception. Enough of a slackening of the leash to make the tug, when it comes, more effective. 

But we go out, in the dead of night, wrestle with our fates, our demons and our angels. Until, when the clocks have fallen silent, we roll up the remnants of the evening, as much as we remember, and creep back to the snoring safety of home.

Just another Saturday night.

A week of poems… The suite, if such it is, runs: friday, thursday, wednesday, tuesday, monday, sunday, saturday. - week…