Saturday

Saturday,
The constant chatter of the week is replaced,
with a soft distant scrape.

You fight through a maze
of despondence,
through the noon hour.

Paper on the floor,
sticks to your feet.
You shake it off.

Evening arrives to find you
salivating, face against
pillow. You snore.

Outside, unseen,
lights of cars smear
on walls opposing.

And would you
show yourself?
Would you feel?

Saturday,
The trash man
will not come.