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P e r h a p s to D r e a m |
Saturday night strolled out of his hovel
to stretch himself against the stars and contemplate the huffiness of Thursdays. Wednesdays were days for sleep; but Thursdays led to a prompting of muscles and an exaction of expectation. Thursdays were a wetness on his fingers that he wondered did it feel like sweat or like blood? no matter; it was neither. But a feeling on his hands left him unsettled? perhaps. Perhaps only tired tired of sleeping and waiting for things to go the way they are supposed to go. So he stretched his back and yawned howlishly into the still air. Oh Well. Back to sleep. Nothing doing out here. Perhaps day after tomorrow or the next, whenever. The day will come. What was I dreaming of? A star? a night? Something. Perhaps tomorrow Saturday night coils himself in his lair while Thursday spins out nightmares to play across his rude brow, thinking Perhaps Saturday does not know what being Thursday is like and thinking Perhaps I will show him |
