Weekend Wars
Friday mornings always find you restless,
stressed beyond compare, you are
Tuesday stretched too long,
your feet tap dance on the wrong side of anxious,
uptight, ready, nervous, waiting,
too long, waiting, nervous, ready,
you’ll forget how to be grateful
by the time the sun is gone
Friday night greets you, weightless,
an airy anchor poured neatly
into an eight dollar glass,
you become a shot put, soaring
on the throngs of beating drums,
each thump, pulls you closer,
each sip pushes you further
from your normal reserved nature,
checked, like a coat, at the door,
three more shots past your denial
and you become
a merry-go-round with no conscience,
it is funny what’s forgotten in between smiles
and the miles that your neediness circle upon
never quite equal true happiness,
by midnight
you are former self apparition,
a ghost disappearing in bathroom mirrors,
as you eye what you swore
you wouldn’t become
just before the sun rises early Saturday,
you’ve been humbled,
a taxicab’s confession,
rosary pressed to the backs
of cheap leather, God’s voice
is Pakistani, or West African,
and you only want it to steer you home,
stumbling, reeling, your innocence is
a broken heel struggling with the curb,
it’s a miracle on nights like these
that either of you find your pillow
Saturday afternoon,
a fly trapped in a widow’s web,
finds you on your back, reserved to the couch,
trying to rake up how you landed
in this mess, and searching
for some way out,
your head is killing you, which fits
since you’ve resigned yourself to mortician,
hopelessly prettying up the few things you can remember,
just to bury them, long before Monday comes,
from noon till sunset, you cozy your closet’s skeletons,
your conscience, a yet uncovered tomb,
still piled beneath sordid history
but soon, it is Saturday night, and again
you’re an accident, on cruise control,
rambunctiously swerving across the lanes:
one bad decision to the next,
as if tequila and bare flesh just fit together,
and one more shot will really make this better,
common sense front ended by a pitcher of Guinness,
you black out, in the depths of your revelry
Sunday morning is
waking up, face first in the air bag,
body feels the effects, mind circles the shame,
a sleeping stranger lies close, whose name escapes you,
so you take in surroundings to see
who should leave,
if it’s your place, you’ll escape to the bathroom,
a splash of cold water, so you can
scold the other stranger,
whose eyes search anxiously
for scars, in the mirror,
any tears can come after the
first stranger leaves,
but if it’s their place, the tears must wait longer,
a soft roll from a foreign bed, followed by
a quiet search for shoes,
don’t want to wake them,
not due to the unease
caused by a night you don’t remember,
but simply because you don’t need more to regret,
getting home is a pilgrimage across loneliness,
unfortunately, you’ve trekked this barren land,
far too many times,
your door slamming shut behind you is an alarming reminder:
Sunday is blunt force trauma, delivered
to the fractured mass that you are,
it is a day of picking up pieces,
taking glue to uneven edges and
trying to reattach composure and self,
once more promising ears that forgot how to listen
that you won’t get this bad again,
afternoon cocktails help ease the pain,
but this time you won’t go over,
by Sunday night you are penitent
and only a few bad memories remain
Monday mornings still find you weary,
a damaged fighter trying to hide the unhealed wounds,
worn out, you are Saturday, amplified too loudly,
having found that the next battle
might equal your surrender,
it is Friday, much too soon
