Saturday

I’m tied to these delicate
threads of circumstance,
hesitating on the moment
whether I should ask you
to stay with me and
      to dance.
These are the threads that
      hold me in place:
the fine fine frenzy,
the Saturday scene,
And gin blossoms on your face

With the sound and the fury
The noise and the heat
the flash of the lights
We’ll follow the usual turn of the night
After all, It is better to laugh than to weep;
To dance than to sleep
—-For in sleep dreams are born;
and in dreams, foolish things, foolish thoughts:
            like believing I know
what love must be
when you lay your your head on my shoulder
To repose amidst the revelry.
            I’ll bottle us in memory
As you sleep and dream comfortably
Distilling ten thousand sorrows,
To revisit tomorrow
      with rueful reverie.
For a few more useless days.

But, will you remember?
Will I recall?
The fine fine frenzy
The Saturday scene
      Too many gins in
With one you knew
But didn’t know at all

Though I’m ripe to contemplate
It’s the thought that easily escapes
      Beyond the rhythm and the rhyme
and the cadence of your call,
In the dizzy of the disco,
I struggle with the cans and cannots,
      That which is and that which ought,
Thoughts that punctuate the haze,
leaving only to frustrate,
For you to circle ‘round so many times
to fall back on the solitary fact
that some things cannot be
      Misery does love company…
and soon the clock will strike 3
and I’ll realize we’re at it again.
—Past the fine fine frenzy
and the Saturday scene
All I wanted to do was hold your hand
And say what I mean.

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