A weekend that was

April 1st, 2001 admin Posted in Poetry |

Anything that comes,
one would suppose,
would stay awhile
before it goes.
But weekends are
a finicky breed,
they can hardly wait,
before they recede.
In they roll slowly
with a relaxed gait,
never in a hurry,
to spoil your wait.
Starry eyed and smiling,
you’re dreaming away,
the weekends coming and
its already Tuesday.
Never mind in the least,
and do not despair,
for all the backlogs,
the weekends is there.
Boy, weekdays are heavy,
loaded with stuff to do,
just pack it and stack it
into the weekend too.
So here comes Friday,
finally we are free.
There is relief in the air,
there are parties till three.
Everyone is sensing.
the weekend’s near,
even senseless boneheads,
drowned in pools of beer.
Warm and snug,
wrapped up in bed,
no jump-starts today,
just laze instead.
Early birds are
up at noon,
others relax,
twelve’s too soon.
Finally the bunch
is up by two,
and is desperately
searching for a clue,
on how to start,
and what to do,
confused and sad
that you are wasting time too.
As you painfully pick
and sorrowfully munch,
the biscuits and snacks,
that pass off as lunch
you realize you’re out,
of milk, veggies and cheese,
And there is no survival tactic,
but to go for groceries.
There goes the afternoon,
and a thought turns you pale
it’s your turn to clean the house,
then you rush to check your mail
As the moon comes up,
and the sun leaves the scene,
the stinking sweatstained
weekday clothes
are screaming for a swim
in the washing machine.
Dinner done,
you’re tired to the bone,
but there are people to call,
And you are glued to the phone.
The weekend weakened
your faith and charm,
and before you sleep,
you set the alarm.
Come Sunday you are up,
and raring to go,
but tomorrow’s Monday,
and you have a report to show.
A quick breakfast
and to office you run
to finish off all
you’d left undone.
And Sundays are
all about accepting fate,
gearing up for the next five days,
and falling into another
weekend wait.
The story never
changes a note,
It just repeats
quote unquote.
Only once was it
not quite there,
and I was surprised,
with an hour to spare.
Would have enjoyed the hour,
yet again I did fail,
When else do you think,
I wrote this tale!

(Anil Krishna, April 2001)