FOR THE WEEKEND
Everywhere the same man washes his car.
Indeterminate, in all the cul-de-sacs,
hours stretch from one galaxy to the next.
Long weekends are a wet black hole
where the tree that bears no fruit's cut down
and neighbours fall in love with themselves
then rise unrefreshed at 11 or 12.
More at least than these carbonised words
for all this effort in the kitchen. A recipe
ought to have something to show for it.
But those days I was able to lie abed,
tell huge whoppers all night, are gone.
I thought we'd all be editors someday,
not yet wanting to be tied down.
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