That Friday Feeling

that Friday feeling calls near noon with thoughts of lager capped by foam and dreams this work-day will end soon which gives your mind a mood to roam to favored joints, where with the guys you joke, guffaw, and swig cold beer until a soft glance meets your eyes, inviting you to swagger near and, with bravado, take a chance to learn her name is Betty-Lou and yes, indeed, she'd love to dance; this precious, lovely dream-come-true melts in your arms when music slows, allowing hands to learn each curve while floral scent enthralls your nose, imbuing you with manly nerve to hand-in-hand flee into night where moon peeps down on newfound bliss and giddy hearts take sudden flight when lips approach to share a kiss but garlic-breathing boss looms near, you shake awake, return alive, are bull's-eye of his nasal sneer: "the weekend, Clown, don't start till five!"