Late August mornings
The air is getting cold
Wake up, and pull me closer
The sun is rising slow

Slow, like a butterfly, when it lands on a blade of grass
Slow, like my eyes that open, once and then blink twice
There's no need to go faster, there's no need to rush
These late August mornings, lay still and enjoy life

Lay still and take it in; you're breathing, you're alive

Late August mornings
Feel lazy the whole day
Everything I planned to do
I might not do today

Today, life is perfect, no worries, no regrets
Today I plan to stay asleep and dream away the stress
I dream of pretty butterflies, of wind and scattered petals
These late August mornings, I get to feel alive

Sit there, and imagine, you're perfect, so is life

Late August mornings
Rays coming from the sun
Peeking through my window
Trying to wake me up

Wake me up from the perfect dreams inside my head
Wake me up so that I'll feel safe and sound again
Calm, and very happy, quiet all around
Outside I hear the crickets chirping, birds singing their sound

That moment is the reason I love this late summer month

Late August mornings
Coffee, rumpled sheets
Across the room, a pillowcase
Has landed by your feet

Feet that walked a hundred, a thousand million miles
Feet that carried you through everything you did in life
Nobody else will ever understand who you are, what you do
Nobody else will ever get what you had to go through

You stand there, please understand, you're who you need to be

Late August mornings
The breeze plays with my hair
The open window lets in light
With you, its cozy here

The way you said good morning, smiled and kissed my brow
The way you held me in your arms, I want to feel them now
Loved me unconditionally, but beauty has an end
I'm alone now, you're gone, I just have a head full of memories left

I wish you stayed for longer, but time came for you to go

Late August mornings
Like time came to a stop
I lay alone and think about
Nothing and everything

Everything I said, everything I didn't do
Nothing comes to mind of what I loved more than I, you
Not long ago, life was completely different
Changes will come and go, and you were one of them

You're gone now, and I miss you, a smile ghosts my lips

Late August mornings
It's time for me to go
Wish I could stay for longer
Sun came up long ago

Long time until I'll be able to do this all again
Long time until I'll be able to move on from this mess
But until next summer comes, I'll be here all alone
Until I close my eyes, and imagine you were never gone

Reality comes crashing, to imagine is a dream

Late August mornings
My bed is undisturbed
The sheets are straightened out
The floor has lost the pillowcase

The coffee cup is in the sink, the windows opened wide
The sun is up, the open blinds are letting in the light
Instead of lounging on the bed you can find me on the couch
Staring out the window, in my hands a cup of tea

Late August mornings...

They feel different without you; you are all I'd ever need

Every day is the same; they wake up in the same bed, at the same ungodly hour, to the same monotonous ringing from the alarm clock.

They grumble their ‘good morning’s; whether they believe it is or not, rolling out of opposite sides of the duvet.

They dance around each other in the bathroom, the heat of the shower creating a fog through which neither of them can see; causing him to stub his toe on the toilet or the counter, and steaming up the mirror so she can’t apply her make-up.

They continue their ritual into the kitchen; flicking on the kettle, popping in the bread, pouring the orange juice; stirring the tea, catching the toast and spreading the butter and jam. Crunching and slurping together at the table, mumbling about what their days have in store; tapping texts on their phones, crinkling newspaper in their hands.

They peck each other a kiss goodbye and mutter a ‘see you later’ before going their separate ways.

But then Monday comes...

Mondays are different.

He knows she doesn’t like Monday mornings. It’s the very beginning of a new, long, tiring week. She never looks forward to Mondays.

So he changes that.

He sets the alarm on his watch a little earlier than other days; shutting it off before it can wake her.

He slips silently out of bed and tiptoes quietly into the bathroom to shower; leaving her smiley faces and love messages on the steamy mirrors.

He creates her favourite tea and makes her toast with raspberry jam; just the way she likes it. Picking a flower from the garden; whichever one looks the happiest and brightest, he places it all on a tray and pads back up to the bedroom to wake her.

She no longer sets her alarm on Mondays. She knows he’ll not let her oversleep.

He places the flower in her hair and drops delicate kisses; full of his love and affection for her, to the corner of her mouth, until she stirs gently.

She smiles on Monday mornings.

They eat breakfast in bed, covering the sheets in crumbs and giggling contentedly as the cat licks them up.

She hums in the bathroom while he clears away crockery, and always re-emerges with the flower tucked behind her ear.

It remains there ‘til night fall.

They never once look at their phones or the paper, far too focused on each other to pay anything else mind.

Their kiss as they part reminds them of their love for each other and of the good things in life; like strolls along the shore, strawberries dipped in dark chocolate, smiling sunflowers that open to a beautiful summer’s day, and of course, Monday mornings.

I returned home to the kitchen the way it was left,
with everything laid out on the counter top.
It was such a mess,
of course it was;
we dropped everything as we rushed out the door.
A cutting board,
with apple slices now browned by their exposure to the air,
bananas now withering into nothingness,
and a knife,
dripping with the blood-red juice of a pomegranate.
Or was it her blood on the floor?
I breathed in the scent of the two day old pomegranate;
it was still sweet,
and it ****** me off.

I used to love my Sunday mornings.
Waking up,
getting out of bed
kissing her.
She was perfect,
and made even the simplest task,
such as cutting a pomegranate in half,
beautiful.
I’ve never seen her be anything except beautiful,
not even once,
not even as she grabbed her stomach,
where our beautiful flower bloomed,
not even as she screamed in pain.
She was the essence of everything fantastic, and whatever she did reflected that.
I used to love the smell of pomegranate.
It would wake me up,
and I would follow it down the hall,
to the kitchen,
and into the arms of my beautiful wife.
The pure, sweet scent reminded me of Sunday mornings,
and Sunday mornings reminded me of every reason
life was worth living:
Her
.
I was silent
as I began to clean the counter top off,
the apples went in the trash,
the bananas went in the trash,
but the pomegranate…
the pomegranate stared at me from where it was.
It burned a hole into me.
I picked it up,
and the very touch made me angry.
I  couldn’t bare the thought of it being near me.
Its sweet smell turned putrid in my hands.
I threw it as hard as I could,
its path going through the window,
and the glass made a sound I’ll never forget.
But the fact was,
I threw it out,
and it was gone.
The smell of pomegranate
would never be here again
on Sunday mornings.
And neither would she.

In the Fall, when the temperature of the Bay would drop and the wind blew ice, frost would gather on the lawn near Henry Oldez's room. It was not a heavy frost that spread across the paralyzed lawn, but one that just covered each blade of grass with a fine, white, almost dusty coat. Most mornings, he would stumble out of the garage where he slept and tip toe past the ice speckled patch of brown and green spotted grass, so to make his way inside to relieve himself. If he was in no hurry, he would stand on the four stepped stoop and look back at the dried, dead leaves hanging from the wiry branches of three trees lined up against the neighbors fence. The picture reminded him of what the old gallows must have looked like. Henry Oldez had been living in this routine for twenty some years.

He had moved to California with his mother, father, and three brothers 35 years ago. Henry's father, born and raised in Tijuana, Mexico, had traveled across the Meixcan border on a bent, full jalopy with his wife, Betria Gonzalez and their three kids. They were all mostly babies then and none of the brothers claimed to remember anything of the ride, except one, Leo, recalled there was "A lotta dust in the car." Santiago Oldez, San for short, had fought in World War II and died of cancer ten years later. San drank most nights and smoked two packs of Marlboro Reds a day. Henry had never heard his father talk about the fighting or the war. If he was lucky to hear anything, it would have been when San was dead drunk, talking to himself mostly, not paying very much attention to anyone except his memories and his music.

"San loved two things in this world," Henry would say, "*****, Betria, and Johnny Cash."

Betria Gonzalez grew up in Tijuana, Mexico as well. She was a stout, short woman, wide but with pretty eyes and a mess of orange golden hair. Betria could talk to anyone about anything. Her nick names were the conversationalist or the old crow because she never found a reason to stop talking. Santiago had met her through a friend of a friend. After a couple of dates, they were married. There is some talk of a dispute among the two families, that they didn't agree to the marriage and that they were too young, which they probably were. Santiago being Santiago, didn't listen to anybody, only to his heart. They were married in a small church outside of town overlooking the Pacific. Betria told the kids that the waves thundered and crashed against the rocks that day and the sea looked endless. There were no pictures taken and only three people were at the ceremony: Betria, San, and the priest.

Of course, the four boys went to elementary and high school, and, of course, none of them went to college. One brother moved down to LA and eventually started working for a law firm doing their books. Another got married at 18 years old and was in and out of the house until getting under the wing of the union, doing construction and electrical work for the city. The third brother followed suit. Henry Oldez, after high school, stayed put. Nothing in school interested him. Henry only liked what he could get into after school. The people of the streets were his muse, leaving him with the tramps, the dealers, the struggling restaurateurs, the laundry mat hookers, the crooked cops and the addicts, the gang bangers, the bible humpers, the window washers, the jesus freaks, the EMT's, the old ladies pushing salvation by every bus stop, the guy on the corner and the guy in the alley, and the DOA's. Henry didn't have much time for anyone else after all of them.

Henry looked at himself in the mirror. The light was off and the room was dim. Sunlight streaked in through the dusty blinds from outside, reflecting into the mirror and onto Henry's face. He was short, 5' 2'' or 5' 3'' at most with stubby, skinny legs, and a wide, barrel shaped chest. He examined his face, which was a ravine of wrinkles and deep crows feet. His eyes were sunken and small in his head. Somehow, his pants were always one or two inches below his waistline, so the crack of his *** would constantly be peeking out. Henry's deep, chocolate colored hair was  that of an ancient Native American, long and nearly touched the tip of his belt if he stood up straight. No one knew how long he had been growing it out for. No one knew him any other way. He would comb his hair incessantly: before and after a shower, walking around the house, watching television with Betria on the couch, talking to friends when they came by, and when he drove to work, when he had it.

Normal work, nine to five work, did not work for Henry. "I need to be my own boss," he'd say. With that fact stubbornly put in place, Henry turned to being a handy man, a roofer, and a pioneer of construction. No one knew where he would get the jobs that he would get, he would just have them one day. And whenever he 'd finish a job, he'd complain about how much they'd shorted him, soon to move on to the next one. Henry never had to listen to anyone and, most of the time, he got free lunches out of it. It was a very strange routine, but it worked for him and Betria had no complaints as long as he was bringing some money in and keeping busy. After Santiago died, she became the head of the house, but really let her boys do whatever they wanted.

Henry took a quick shower and blow dried his hair, something he never did unless he was in a hurry. He had a job in the east bay at a sorority house near the Berkley campus. At the table, still in his pajamas, he ate three leftover chicken thighs, toast, and two over easy eggs. Betria was still in bed, awake and reading. Henry heard her two dogs barking and scratching on her bedroom door. He got up as he combed his damp hair, tugging and straining to get each individual knot out. When he opened the door, the smaller, thinner dog, Boy Boy, shot under his legs and to the front door where his toy was. The fat, beige, pig-like one waddled out beside Henry and went straight for its food bowl.

"Good morning," said Henry to Betria.

Betria looked at Henry over her glasses, "You eat already?"

"Yep," he announced, "Got to go to work." He tugged on a knot.

"That's good. Dondé?" Betria looked back down at her spanish TV guide booklet.

"Berkley somewhere," Henry said, bringing the comb smoothly down through his hair.

"That's good, that's good."

"OK!" Henry sighed loudly, shutting the door behind him. He walked back to the dinner table and finished his meal. Then, Betria shouted something from her room that Henry couldn't hear.

"What?" yelled Henry, so she could hear him over the television. She shouted again, but Henry still couldn't hear her. Henry got up and went back to her room, ***** dish in hand. He opened her door and looked at her without saying anything.

"Take the dogs out to ***," Betria told him, "Out the back, not the front."

"Yeah," Henry said and shut the door.

"Come on you dogs," Henry mumbled, dropping his dish in the sink. Betria always did everyones dishes. She called it "her exercise."

Henry let the two dogs out on the lawn. The sun was curling up into the sky and its heat had melted all of the frost on the lawn. Now, the grass was bright green and Henry barely noticed the dark brown dead spots. He watched as the fat beige one squatted to ***. It was too fat to lifts its own leg up. The thing was built like a tank or a sea turtle. Henry laughed to himself as it looked up at him, both of its eyes going in opposite directions, its tongue jutted out one corner of his mouth. Boy boy was on the far end of the lawn, searching for something in the bushes. After a minute, he pulled out another one of his toys and brought it to Henry. Henry picked up the neon green chew toy shaped like a bone and threw it back to where Boy boy had dug it out from. Boy boy shot after it and the fat one just watched, waddling a few feet away from it had peed and laid down. Henry threw the toy a couple more times for Boy boy, but soon he realized it was time to go.

"Alright!" said Henry, "Get inside. Gotta' go to work." He picked up the fat one and threw it inside the laundry room hallway that led to the kitchen and the rest of the house. Boy boy bounded up the stairs into the kitchen. He didn't need anyone lifting him up anywhere. Henry shut the door behind them and went to back to his room to get into his work clothes.

Henry's girlfriend was still asleep and he made sure to be quiet while he got dressed. Tia, Henry's girlfriend, didn't work, but occasionally would put up garage sales of various junk she found around town. She was strangely obsessed with beanie babies, those tiny plush toys usually made up in different costumes. Henry's favorite was the hunter. It was dressed up in camouflage and wore an eye patch. You could take off its brown, polyester hat too, if you wanted. Henry made no complaint about Tia not having a job because she usually brought some money home somehow, along with groceries and cleaning the house and their room. Betria, again, made no complain and only wanted to know if she was going to eat there or not for the day.

A boat sized bright blue GMC sat in the street. This was Henry's car. The stick shift was so mangled and bent that only Henry and his older brother could drive it. He had traded a new car stereo for it, or something like that. He believed it got ten miles to the gallon, but it really only got six or seven. The stereo was the cleanest piece of equipment inside the thing. It played CD's, had a shoddy cassette player, and a decent radio that picked up all the local stations. Henry reached under the seat and attached the radio to the front panel. He never left the radio just sitting there in plain sight. Someone walking by could just as soon as put their elbow into the window, pluck the thing out, and make a clean 200 bucks or so. Henry wasn't that stupid. He'd been living there his whole life and sure enough, done the same thing to other cars when he was low on money. He knew the tricks of every trade when it came to how to make money on the street.

On the road, Henry passed La Rosa, the Mexican food mart around the corner from the house. Two short, tanned men stood in front of a stand of CD's, talking. He usually bought pirated music or movies there. One of the guys names was Bertie, but he didn't know the other guy. He figured either a customer or a friend. There were a lot of friends in this neighborhood. Everyone knew each other somehow. From the bars, from the grocery, from the laundromat, from the taco stands or from just walking around the streets at night when you were too bored to stay inside and watch TV. It wasn't usually safe for non-locals to walk the streets at night, but if you were from around there and could prove it to someone that was going to jump you, one could usually get away from losing a wallet or an eyeball if you had the proof. Henry, to people on the street, also went as Monk. Whenever he would drive through the neighborhood, the window open with his arm hanging out the side, he would usually hear a distant yell of "Hey Monk!" or "What's up Monk!". Henry would always wave back, unsure who's voice it was or in what direction to wave, but knowing it was a friend from somewhere.

There was heavy traffic on the way to Berkley and as he waited in line, cursing his luck, he looked over at the wet swamp, sitting there beside highway like a dead frog. A few scattered egrets waded through the brown water, their long legs keeping their clean white bodies safe from the muddy water. Beyond the swamp laid the pacific and the Golden Gate bridge. San Francisco sat there too: still, majestic, and silver. Next to the city, was the Bay Bridge stretched out over the water like long gray yard stick. Henry compared the Golden Gate's beauty with the Bay Bridge. Both were beautiful in there own way, but the Bay Bridge's color was that of a gravestone, while the Golden Gate's color was a heavy red, that made it seem alive. Why they had never decided to pain the Bay Bridge, Henry had no idea. He thought it would look very nice with a nice coat of burgundy to match the Golden gate, but knew they would never spend the money. They never do.

After reeling through the downtown streets of Berkley, dodging college kids crossing the street on their cell phones and bicyclists, he finally reached the large, A-frame house. The house was lifted, four or five feet off the ground and you had to walk up five or seven stairs to get to the front door. Surrounded by tall, dark green bushes, Henry knew these kids had money coming from somewhere. In the windows hung spinning colored glass and in front of the house was an old-timey dinner bell in the shape of triangle. Potted plants lined the red brick walkway that led to the stairs. Young tomatoes and small peas hung from the tender arms of the stems leaf stalks. The lawn was manicured and clean. "Must be studying agriculture or something," Henry thought, "Or they got a really good gardener."

He parked right in front of the house and looked the building up and down, estimating how long it would take to get the old shingles off and the new one's on. Someone was up on the deck of the house, rocking back and forth in an old wooden chair. He listened to the creaking wood of the chair and the deck, judging it would take him two days for the job. Henry knew there was no scheduled rain, but with the Bay weather, one could never be sure. He had worked in rain before - even hail - and it never really bothered him. The thing was, he never strapped himself in and when it would rain and he was working roofs, he was afraid to slip and fall. He turned his truck off, got out, and locked both of the doors. He stepped heavily up the walkway and up the stairs. The someone who was rocking back and forth was a skinny beauty with loose jean shorts on and a thick looking, black and red plaid shirt. She had long, chunky dread locks and was smoking a joint, blowing the smoke out over the tips of the bushes and onto the street. Henry was no stranger to the smell. He smoked himself. This was California.

"Who're you?" the dreaded girl asked.

"I'm the roofer," Henry told her.

The girl looked puzzled and disinterested. Henry leaned back on his heels and wondered if the whole thing was lemon. She looked beyond him, down on the street, awkwardly annoying Henry's gaze. The tools in Henry's hands began to grow heavy, so he put them down on the deck with a thud. The noise seemed to startle the girl out of whatever haze her brain was in and she looked back at Henry. Her eyes were dark brown and her skin was smooth and clear like lake water. She couldn't have been more then 20 or 21 years old. Henry realized that he was staring and looked away at the various potted plants near the rocking chair. He liked them all.

"Do you know who called you?" She took a drag from her joint.

"Brett, " Henry told her, "But they didn't leave a last name."

For a moment, the girl looked like she had been struck across the chin with a brick, but then her face relaxed and she smiled.

"Oh ****," she laughed, "That's me. I called you. I'm Brett."

Henry smiled uneasily and picked up his tools, "Ok."

"Nice to meet you," she said, putting out her hand.

Henry awkwardly put out his left hand, "Nice to meet you too."

She took another drag and exhaled, the smoke rolling over her lips, "Want to see the roof?"

The two of them stood underneath a five foot by five foot hole. Henry was a little uneasy by the fact they had cleaned up none of the shattered wood and the birds pecking at the bird seed sitting in a bowl on the coffee table facing the TV. The arms of the couch were covered in bird **** and someone had draped a large, zebra printed blanket across the middle of it. Henry figured the blanket wasn't for decoration, but to hide the rest of the bird droppings. Next to the couch sat a large, antique lamp with its lamp shade missing. Underneath the dim light, was a nice portrait of the entire house. Henry looked away from the hole, leaving Brett with her head cocked back, the joint still pinched between her lips, to get a closer look. There looked to be four in total: Brett, a very large man, a woman with longer, thick dread locks than Brett, and a extremely short man with a very large, brown beard. Henry went back

On Saturday mornings it always was the same
my Nan would say come Chris we are going down the lane
I would fret want to go to the bathroom but she'd drag me out again
knowing what a powder keg she was and thought her rather insane

It did not matter how big they were she had ***** of steel
if someone crossed her path they would come off ill
I was mortified by her temper, my word but she was strong
I have seen her throw hard men right over my head and they were gone

Now at this not so tender age I am
now I understand who I am
just another dangerous creature
like my sweet old Nan

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

I love waking up to you like this, with the sheet pulled up to our waists, my arm around you, your hair all tangled in my face. A dusting of light squeezes through the gaps in the window curtains, gracing your cheek on the pillow beside mine. It plays in your hair, caresses your neck, and flutters down the length of your bare side. The feeling I get when you move against me is indescribable. Your skin. Your scent. Electrifying and calming all at once.

You never wake up before I do, leaving me time to admire your beauty. I have heard people say that they could watch the ocean forever, getting lost in the infinity of the waves and horizon. I feel that way about you. Forever I could listen to your gentle breath and watch the ceiling fan move the little wisp of hair near your ear.

Alas, you always wake, usually first with a slight stir of your legs. Then you take my arm, the one wrapped around you, and pull yourself closer to me until your back is against my chest and your feet tickle mine. I pull you closer to me still, kissing your neck just below the ear. This kiss never fails to finish waking you up, pulling you from whatever remnants were left of the dream you might've been in.

You roll over to face me, your chest against mine, our legs overlapping. Your hand comes up to stoke my hair as you kiss me, my hand on your hip. Morning begins as soon as you open your eyes. Those deep hazel eyes that I lose myself in. The eyes that I can find myself in. I kiss you once more before throwing off the covers and rolling out of bed.

Like clockwork, that is our morning routine. I love it. But this isn’t about our usual routine. This is about the mornings that start with more than a kiss.

This is about the mornings when you first stir and pull me close, pressing your hips against me. This is about the mornings when instead of just taking my arm, you take my hand beneath yours and direct my fingers down your neck, across your chest, to your waist. This is about the mornings when instead of a brief kiss on your neck, I place my kisses all over your body.

You slowly roll over to face me, the sunlight rolling across the incredible slopes of your bare body. My hand is in your messy, wonderful hair as we kiss. Your legs and mine are entangled, our toes warm under the sheet. Awe is the word that comes to mind as you, this beautiful person, climb on top of me, the lucky man. I love the way hair hangs messy in your face, tickling mine when you lean in for another deep kiss, body tingling as you guide me in.

It doesn’t feel hurried or hasty. It is slow and calm, a comfortable warmth only alluding to heat. This isn’t the fiery passion of the night before, both desperate to pleasure the other. It isn’t the reckless abandon of two lovers lost to the night. There will be no sore muscles or exhausted bodies when we are done. Instead, this feels like comfort, understanding. It feels like love.

You used to worry about how you looked when you woke up. You worried that you didn’t look **** without makeup, with messy hair, and the remnants of sleep in your face. But the truth is that I don’t mind if your hair is a mess, if sleep still dusts your eyes, or that lines from the pillow are imprinted on the side of your cheek. To me this is the epitome of comfort, the clearest way I can say that I want you. That I want you now, that I want you at any time, and that I always will. This is the time that I will think on as I go about my day, waiting to get back to you.

I love waking up to you like this.

Summer morning -
pink jets of clouds
splash out
from the golden well of the east
falling just short
of an ebbing moon.

Streams of swallows
flutter and glide
over the garden -
they are all flying
in the same direction
as if erupting

from the sun’s waking pulse.
Just for a moment
one of the birds hangs
perfectly still -
like the top-most drop of water
from a fountain before it turns

to face the glittering pool.
Beneath them all
the hummingbird
makes her rounds
and a dove scratches the earth
below the feeder

keeping an wary eye
on the scribbling intruder.
So many summer mornings -
too many summer mornings
I have wasted
worrying about the world

and my place in it –
absent from my own body
and breath
the cage of my ribs
rising, falling, and pausing
without me. Meanwhile,

another swallow
stills her wings.
Buoyed by an unseen breeze
she is both feathered sail
and cresting wave as she slices
over my shoulder bearing west.


Tom Spencer © 2015

Some mornings, heartbreak is in your bones, settled deep inside though you can’t seem to recall sending the invitation.
Your rib cage stands like the bare tree of fall, the wind whistling through it’s frail branches, tapping on your window as if to remind you, you are alone.

Some mornings, heartbreak is in your skull, in the crevices of the pale blue casing that surrounds your every thought, the broken dreamcatcher trying to keep the evil away.
But ghosts can float between the bars, slip inside your deepest secrets, with no regret or remorse for making you cry out in the night.

Some mornings, heartbreak is in your spine, intertwining like ivy on a lamp post, leaving you begging for someone else to hold your own head up for you.
Comfort resides in the hours spent cut off from reality, for at least you have control of that, though the dreams leave you franticly reaching in the night for something unknown to even you.

Some mornings, heartbreak finds it’s way back to your heart, slides through the valves, into the ventricles, mixing with the blood that gives you life. Heartbreak gives you life. Heartbreak reaches every last corner of your body, crippling you and taunting you, but you are still capable of breathing on your own. Heartbreak may be a thief, but you are a statue, broken and crumbling around the edges but still standing after all these years.

Some mornings, heart break is in your body. It seems to make up the essence of you, but it is not your being. You are your being.

Do you remember Saturday mornings?

Passing notes across the table,
Exchanging juvenile expressions,
Laughing and learning
About who we really were.

It was during this time with you
I discovered myself.
Now I'm lost again, I need your help.

I have forgotten Saturday mornings,
And Friday afternoons,
And every late night.

Do you remember Saturday mornings?