Saturday, a priest amongst days.
These poor hands receive the descent of man,
My rightful share in an illegal age.
I am a writer, not a fighter,
Searching old stories hidden under rock,
Of how angels never made it underground,
Then embracing an eleven-o-clock break
To consider whiff-waff and dildrams.
Don’t ask me what I mean.
Instead, consider grandmother’s glass eye
And her three hours of secret history.
The nanny state made me. I intend to enjoy it.