Saturday night

Midnight, 1am

on Saturday night

the week is crumpled

like an old sock

One complete day away

from computer screens

and tappety keyboards

and runaway mice hiding

under my desk

My soul yearns

for wind against my skin

the sting of hair whipping

my face, turned to the salty

horizon, crunching sand

underfoot, bare toes cold

and ecstatic, digging

into the wetness

to find pipis, tuatua

laughing, as tongues protrude

and it’s bottoms up, cheers

we drink, as the moon rises

wanly, the day is too strong

and Monday is held back

by night’s strong hand

black and starry, clean

crisp invisible air sucked

in great gulps of joy

as I know deep in my marrow

as I toss the sand away 

by the handful, toss my hair

in the forceful sea breeze

I am free.

Leave a comment


  1. Well put. I’m with you on the Monday blues. The alternative you describe, so desirable. It is a yearning.x


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