“What do you do on a Saturday morning”, they ask.
I sit by the sea shore to study the skies and eat salted fish
But a swallow will sail above and drop a swill on my shirt.
I will squint, swing around and swear at the silly creature
The sailors will smile and shrug
They have seen all seasons of sadness in this steaming system of squalor.
Sure, the day will surface and we shall all be surprised
That what was said at the beginning still holds steady
That everything will come to a sudden end.
But first I swim and subdue the waves until they surrender to my superior inner strength
Then I search my soul for residues of stains and pains from the pasture of self pity.
“What else do you do on a Saturday morning”, they ask.
I join the rising sun to sing the songs of sustentation
And salivate over my plate of starch and smoking banga soup.
“What else do you do on a Saturday morning”, they ask.
I stay by the window to hear all the seductive things the sunflowers say to the butterflies
And see the birds set themselves free from the seclusion of their soiled nests.
What about you? What do you do on a Saturday morning?
