It Could Be Saturday

The days melt a panting clock, time paints a question mark, just ahead of me. Being mostly dug into a much-reclined age, I do not labor in the wide-open or narrow life, yet I work, just as frenetically as any puppy in Springtime, Saturday, breaks up the week-long long shift, Sunday cracks a giddy-up whip once more. O you fulsome, sweet legged dream girl, and ever so slightly crazy muse. I wish you had time to put the kettle on for a morning cup of tea. The dial of my face is solidifying, lips pucker and flirt with a timeless reverie. Arrow-tipped hands are already spinning. Andiamo!