Every week I wait for the weekend
Like a passionate lover with
restless eyes.
I go back and forth between my chores
stopping to glance at the garden gate
perhaps it is here,
crept up on velvety feet
On Friday there's a recklessness
Of all cares thrown to the wind
I surprise myself with a gaiety I didn't
know existed in me
Then comes the Sunday bringing
boredom and frustration
and a dull, nagging ache
and look - a sliver of hope,
Perhaps the next weekend,
perhaps the next.....
