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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!
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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