Of what use is a Saturday
if you cannot indulge
and waste it away
on pointless things?
What good is a Saturday
if not for cold beer
and music you love
that others do not?
What’s Saturday for
if not to read books
that put you to sleep
and let you snooze
as everyone else
dithers about
fastidiously
completing their lists?
Why is there Saturday
if not to write poems
few people will read,
and warrant no praise
for they aren’t very good,
yet you write anyway?
Music and beer;
naps and bad poems:
These are what make
a Saturday, Saturday.
February 1, 2014
