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Personal Note:

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Poem

Between our Fridays and our Sundays some pine
For eternity to shield them from the work week forever
For Eden's pronouncement drag the soul through time
A rag to labor with soiled contempt of hands
Wiped on them, and a rude mark on their face
The factory floor, the office, the field make them shudder
Their soul without esteem pressed into littered mud
Yet each weekend the sun runs quicker it seems
And the clock like a whip
Pulls away families, friends, leaving the desolate hunger
That make us toil without being filled.
Between our Fridays and our Sundays we see clearly
The barren repose of earth's ambition
And these days there is nothing there for tomorrow
No pensions, nor savings, only wrinkling toil
The ancient slant against which the masses toil.
And here and there 
There is no dream of revolution
The far satellites watches with such premonitions
Streaming masses shuttled in all direction
Confused as the ant disturbed while ascending its mound
Piling up to climb down
Between our Fridays and our Sundays I pine too
But for the eclipse of time
That keeps us like the poles apart
With mounds of impatience steepling my heart.

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