Saturdays

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Little droplets of rain

throw themselves gently onto the glass

it's Saturday and the sky is grey

a sheet of cloud, one big blanket across the sky

like a can of paint.

These are the days that ask us loudly, obviously:

"What must you do today that cannot wait?"

And we trot, wayfaring down streets for cups of hot coffee or tea,

or we vacuum the carpets while pondering tonight's dinner

or we wait in line at grocery stores, in liquor stores, in little shops

because Saturdays are the best days for those things.

Saturdays don't yell at us like Mondays do, or Tuesdays.

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