Saturday.

what a glorious time of week.

laundry hangs on the clothesline,

the ghosts of the week left to dry

as we softly stare out the window, chalky panels

between crusting paint. Attempting to

listen to the silence,

muffled by words, we discussed

a day free of demands, and the boy

in his blue shirt, with his ball.

If I were to wish anything on anyone

it would be a year full of

Saturdays.